“Maybe she was,” said Bull. “She probably painted the first fake for him because he sold her a bill of goods. I know a little about Lecotte. He was a shrewd operator. His talk carried authority—it smelled to high heaven of the language most artists love to hear. He fed her this routine until she was sold completely on his double-talk. Then he probably convinced her that she should try to create an original Corot.”
“Corot?” The art verbiage was staggering Mrs. Gant.
“Corot was a painter,” I said. “A Frenchman.”
“One of the greatest,” said Bull. “Lecotte must have convinced Paula that the supreme test of her talents would be the creation of a Corot original—as Corot himself might have composed and painted one. Paula is a talented girl—she must have done well on the job. Lecotte sold the painting to a rich old lady who can’t tell an original from a phony. He knew where these customers grow. But Paula must have found out about the swindle and tried to get him to refund the money. That was why she visited him. She went to The Frog to beg Lecotte to call off the swindle and return her picture. She walked down the hall and discovered her friend on the floor with a knife in his ribs. She ran out of the place, scared to death.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “You mean Paula ran out of the club, returned to her apartment and phoned Lecotte’s office? Why would she do that?”
“Paula will have a few reasons when she regains consciousness,” said Bull. “I can give you theories. You must take for granted first that she was in love with Lecotte. She walked into his office and didn’t find him there. However, on the way out she saw a foot in the doorway. Her first reaction would have been shock and fright. I don’t imagine that Paula stopped to examine the figure. To her it was only a man lying in a dark alley. She ran away from the corpse and then what? In her apartment Paula began to worry. Was it really Lecotte she saw murdered? She had an easy method for checking up—a phone call. If Lecotte answered the phone, all would be well. But Lecotte didn’t answer the phone—you did, Jeff. You recollect a feeling of frightened anxiety in the voice of the woman you heard?”
I recollected.
Bull went on. “We can assume, then, that Paula made the phone call. What next? Still remembering that Paula was in love with Lecotte, we must try to reconstruct her mood immediately after she discovered that he had been murdered. Her first reaction would have been deep and heart-flooding sorrow. Add to this the fact that Paula herself was suspect. She must have assumed that somebody down at The Frog had seen her come in, walk down the corridor to Lecotte’s office and then dash out of the place. Circumstance had woven a net around Paula. In her emotional upheaval over the death of her boyfriend she must have gotten panicky. She saw no way out of her dilemma. She was trapped, cornered; desperate. You’re an artist of sorts, Jeff. Put yourself in Paula’s place, allow for her temperament and tell me what she did.”
I said, “Suicide?”
Bull nodded. “Exactly. She slashed her wrist. That was the reason for the blood stain under the big easy chair. When Semple and Louis found her bleeding to death, one of the boys ran into the bedroom and ripped up a pillowcase for a tourniquet. Then they carried her out to the car and convinced the superintendent that he had better keep his lip buttoned. Isn’t that the way it went, Mrs. Gant?”
Mrs. Gant covered her face with her hands. “The poor kid. I should have kept after her. I should have made her listen to me. I could have stopped the whole thing.”
“You did very well by your little sister,” said Bull. “I doff my derby to your ingenuity. You sent an actress friend of yours up to Paula’s apartment with Semple to remove the bloodstained rug. She got rid of Jeff and MacAndrews with neatness and dispatch. Then Semple came up to get the rug out of the place while the erstwhile Mrs. Franklin led her pursuers a merry chase uptown to nothing more than a dead end. Your Mrs. Franklin could have been a bit cleverer, though. She could have taken a cab downtown. She evidently intended to report to you, didn’t she?”
Mrs. Gant nodded.
“I figured as much,” said Bull. “She left her cab too close to your address. I had made a note of that. I was reminded of it when Mr. Semple escorted us up here this afternoon. The spot where Mrs. Franklin abandoned her taxicab was only a few blocks away.”
“That was her idea,” said Mrs. Gant. “And I’m not so damned clever at all, Bull. If I were really smart I could have stopped all of this before it got this far.”
“I doubt it,” said Bull. “Lecotte, as you well know, was a master at handling females. He must have had Paula paint two fakes—two Corots. It was only after she finished the second that the trouble began. She must have refused to give it to him. She may have threatened to expose him. We’ll hear about all that later from Paula herself—it’s not too important. There are other angles that still throw me. The whole mess is rather involved because there are a few missing characters in the design.” He picked up his hat and started out.
I said, “Would you mind me taking a quiet look at your sister, Mrs. Gant? It’s been a long and complicated struggle reaching here and I’d like to see the girl I was chasing.”
She led me to the bedroom and opened the door slowly.
Paula was asleep in a satin covered beds. The satin was yellow and the room was lit only by a small French lamp on a night table. The effect was startling. It was an illustration in a good juvenile—and Paula was the fairy princess. Her red hair shone against the background of diffused light. She had a face full of quiet beauty, now pale and deathlike and unreal. I wanted to cross the room and talk to her, suddenly, to tell her that my name was Jeff Keye and I knew her brother. I wanted to let her know that she was just as beautiful as I had imagined and that what she needed was a little less fright in her eyes and a little more joy and laughter, and I was a specialist in that line because I did cartoons.
Mrs. Gant closed the door and I said, “I’ll be sending her flowers. Then I’ll be seeing her. Often.”
She squeezed my arm. “Call me soon. I’ll let you know when you can see her.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, every hour on the hour.”
Bull paused at the hail door and took Mrs. Gant’s hand. “Don’t worry about Paula—I won’t breathe a word about her to Trum. You’ve only got Semple to worry about.”
“Semple?”
“He’s down at Trum’s right now. Trum picked him up on suspicion. If Semple talks you may have to spill Paula’s story to Trum. If Semple doesn’t talk, Paula can forget about the past completely.”
She winked at us.
“Semple won’t talk.”
CHAPTER 20
The dawn was struggling vainly through a thick layer of cirrostratus when we arrived at police headquarters. The first gray beams of morning found Bull as spry as ever.
Trum awaited us. He was angry, and his eyes had two or three added traveling bags that went quite well with his ashen face. He had been massaging his hair during the night. His tie hung limply from his unbuttoned collar. He faced us grimly, leaning both arms on the desk top.
Bull sat down. I stood at the far end of the room, waiting for the first shock of dialogue.
Trum said, “If I had met you two hours ago, Bull, I would have fixed your fat little wagon. You follow me?”
Bull said, “It’s too early in the morning for guessing games.”
“I should have sent a detail of men out after you, fat stuff, had them grab you and stick you in a little room I have for busybodies. It’s a cozy little place, with hot and cold running bars.” He waited for a reaction from Bull, got none and went on. “Where have you been, detective?”
“Visiting. Jeff and I have just returned from a visit to the Bronx Zoo. We were interested in observing the awakening of animal life at this hour in the morning. That reminds me, Trum—how long have you been up gathering those cream puffs under your pretty eyes?”
Trum gru
nted. “I could arrest you now, Bull. I’ve got the charge this time.”
Bull half opened one eye. “The only thing you can charge me with is public service. I don’t know why I knock myself out trying to do you favors, Trum. If it weren’t for my sense of civic duty, I would have been home in bed tonight instead of losing weight skipping around the city on police business. Why don’t you be sensible, rest your fat pants in your easy chair and forget about the sleep you lost tonight? It wasn’t my fault that some pixie whispered in your ear that Semple might have murdered Lecotte. Blame the pixie, chum.”
“I’m not talking about Semple and you know it.”
Bull didn’t alter his pose or the tilt of the cigar stub in his mouth or the expression of his face. “Then you must be referring to Gregory Yukon.”
“A good guess. You were down there when Yukon’s body was still warm. You didn’t phone it in, did you?”
“I tried. I got the wrong number and figured I’d be wasting time. His sister phoned in, didn’t she?”
“We’ve got her inside.”
Bull laughed, suddenly. He sat up straight and opened his eyes in unfeigned amazement and laughed loud and long. “You’re getting better and better by the minute, Trum. You didn’t think that Alice Yukon murdered her brother?”
Trum didn’t appreciate the laughter. He came around the desk and stood over Bull menacingly. “I can live without the sound effects, Bull. Sure, she told us all about you being there when she walked in. I’ve heard that song and dance before. What makes you think that she couldn’t have shot him and then walked back after you arrived?”
“She could have,” said Bull. “But she didn’t. She isn’t that type of sister. Gregory Yukon was killed because he was getting too big for his britches. I can tell you the whole story—under one condition.”
Trum said, “You’d better tell it for free, Bull. I’m not in a mood for bargaining.”
“Change your mood.”
Trum shook his head, slowly.
Bull got up. He said, “My heart bleeds for you, Trum. I came down here in the spirit of friendliness. I wanted to let you in on the ground floor—the bargain basement. I was prepared to give you the whole tale, with appropriate dialogue.” He shrugged and started for the door. “However, if you don’t want it … You’d rather play the Rover Boy detective? Rather pull your hair out and wait for the background of this mess to walk in and sit down on your desk? Come on, Jeff, we can’t do business with the man.”
I started across the room to join Bull. I took my fourth step before Trum broke down.
He said, “I’ll play, Bull. But I warn you—whatever you want me to do has to be legal.”
Bull kept his hand on the knob. “No dice.”
“You covering for somebody?”
“In a way. If I tell you that the person I’m protecting isn’t needed on your records, will you believe me?”
Trum sat down, finally, and showed us a face full of resignation. He waved Bull back to the big leather easy chair. “It’s a promise.”
Bull walked back to the chair and lit a fresh cigar. He made his fat frame comfortable in the chair.
Trum said, “Who are you hiding?”
“We’ll get to that later,” said Bull. “Your case began with Jeff Keye because it began with Jeff Keye. You’ll understand why as we go along. In the meantime, here’s a picture to build up in your brain. Consider how the stage was set for Jeff. He returned from the wars searching for his buddy’s sister. He tracked her down to her original lodgings and was stopped cold there. From that point on he was on his own, searching for clues to the disappearance of Paula Smith.”
Trum interrupted. “A hell of a way to build a story. What has this Paula Smith to do with the deal?”
“She’s my client. She’s the name we keep out of the records.”
“You found her?”
“I found her and I want her to stay that way. I don’t want you ferreting around to get her. She’s out of the police picture. She’s the beginning and the end of your story, Trum, but I’ll hand you Lecotte’s murderer without bothering her. I’ll also hand you Yukon’s murderer and still leave Paula Smith alone. That’s the deal.”
Trum said, “All right. I made a promise.”
“Fine. Now we can dig back and begin again from the point of view of Paula Smith. The whole story hangs on her. Paula left Mrs. Preston’s place for a good reason. We have an idea of what went on before Paula left Mrs. Preston’s. We know that she was sketching up at the Metropolitan one day with Alice Yukon when Lecotte happened along. Knowing Lecotte as I did, it occurred to me that he wasn’t the type of art connoisseur who visited museums just to look at pictures. He went there for a purpose, and that purpose was to meet Paula Smith. Our next question is this: who told Lecotte that Paula could be met at the Museum?”
I said, “Alice Yukon?”
“I’m more inclined to believe that Mrs. Preston gave Lecotte the information. Lecotte was working his swindles with a partner. I have an idea that Mrs. Preston was that partner. She’s attractive enough for Lecotte to have tied up with her. She knew her way around in the art world. She ran a boarding house for artists. She frequented Lecotte’s club. She was in the club on the night of the murder. She had contact with Boucher and bought fine arts from him. You follow me, Trum?”
Trum looked alive and nodded, “I’m right behind you.”
“Good. Mrs. Preston must have recognized Paula’s talents immediately. She probably went to her boyfriend, Lecotte, and together they developed the idea of getting Paula to paint what they wanted of her. Lecotte’s job was to work Paula into the plot. He had her paint a few copies and paid her well for them. In the meantime, Lecotte was cheating on his Mrs. Preston. He was making love to Paula. He was hell bent on crowding his old flame out of the payoff.”
I stopped him there. “But why the disappearance? I don’t get the reason for the fadeout.”
Trum said, “That’s easy, even for me. Lecotte decided to double-cross Mrs. Preston. He figured he’d pull Paula Smith out of the boarding house so that he could operate his art swindles away from his lady friend. In that way he could save a fifty percent handout. Right, Bull?”
Bull nodded. “Exactly. After Lecotte had Paula swooning with love for him, he decided to abandon Mrs. Preston. After all, Mrs. Carruthers was probably his customer—and he had dozens of others to whom he could sell Paula’s merchandise.”
“That means that Paula knew about the Carruthers deal, doesn’t it?” I asked
“She must have known. You can understand her position, Jeff. Painters find it tough to eke out a living while following their muse. Lecotte sold her a bill of goods and it wasn’t too tough a selling job for him because the girl was in love with him. He probably convinced her that she could make enough money from one fake painting to support her for the rest of her art career. Lecotte set about making plans for losing Mrs. Preston. Lecotte rented the apartment using the name of Benjamin Franklin—a real clue to the fact that Paula must have known what she was doing. In a burst of whimsy she selected her uncle’s name as a screen.”
“And Paula changed her mind later?”
“She must have changed her mind after Lecotte sold the first one to Mrs. Carruthers. That change of mind must have occurred when her brother got the letter from her over in England. Since then she tried to undo the damage she had done through Lecotte. She broke with him completely and then began to annoy him at his club, probably begging him to get her first fake Corot back from Mrs. Carruthers. Lecotte, of course, temporized. He held her off, made promises and stalled, waiting for a chance to get the second Corot out of her apartment. In this interval of temporizing, he must have gone back to Mrs. Preston, told her about the second Corot and perhaps instructed her to get the painting from Paula’s apartment since he was no longer welcome there.”
I said,
“Then it was Mrs. Preston I saw in the cab the night of the murder?”
“She worked fast,” said Bull. “From murder to larceny in one easy jump.”
Trum looked up from his notes. “Mrs. Preston bumped off Lecotte? Why?”
“A combination of motives, Trum. The psychologists will tell you more about her after you’ve got her confession. I can give you the bare outlines of her emotional drive. She probably was insanely jealous of Lecotte in the first place. He dropped her and took on a new love. That meant that her jealousy was brimming over. She’s a wary dame, however, and sat back to think of a way to kill her flibbertigibbet paramour at the right moment. The moment came when he returned to her with a scheme for gaining Paula’s second Corot. It was made to order for a murderess, that moment. In one fell swoop she butchered her ex-boyfriend, stole a valuable picture and prepared to cash in on the deal and live happily ever after.” Bull opened his eyes for approval from Trum, caught the glint of understanding in the Inspector’s eyes and continued. “She might have beaten the rap if Gregory Yukon hadn’t found out about her scheme.”
“Yukon knew Mrs. Preston?”
“Yukon was an important member of the alliance. He was the final authority on those works of art. He examined them for painting flaws and added the correct touches when they were needed. When Boucher told him of Mrs. Preston’s purchase, Gregory knew immediately what she intended to do. When Yukon heard of Lecotte’s murder, he knew who the murderer was. I’m guessing that at first he threatened to blackmail Mrs. Preston. She followed him back to his city abode, and took a snap shot at him—but only winged him. She couldn’t risk following up when she saw you and Alice tending to him as he lay in his doorway, and drag him back inside.
“Later, suspecting it was Mrs. Preston who’d shot him, and that blackmail was out, he decided to go for broke. He went to Mrs. Preston’s apartment, found you there, Jeff, grabbed the painting and delivered it to Mrs. Carruthers on his own. Naturally, when Mrs. Preston found her precious piece of painting stolen, she knew at once that it could only have been Yukon who took it. No other living man had worked on Lecotte enterprises. For that reason she waited for Gregory after he had gone to Mrs. Carruthers. She bided her time, and when he returned to his studio alone, she killed him.”
The Girl with the Frightened Eyes Page 19
