The Fat Lady's Ghost

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Actually, this is one of my more expensive models. I spent seven dollars for the material. But my aunt gave me the embroidery wools for Christmas, and I cut the pattern out of newspaper, so that kept down the overhead. Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s just that I never knew anybody could live so well on so little money. You’d be wasted on a rich man.”

  “If you’re going to start on Jack Banks again—” Corin waved the coffee pot menacingly.

  “Jack? No, I wasn’t thinking of him.” Alex unfolded his long body from behind the table. “Let me clear up. I’m an expert, you know.”

  “I thought you were all through washing dishes,” teased the girl.

  “This is different.” He stacked the pink china efficiently in the sink and turned on the hot water.

  “At least let me give you an apron.”

  Corin whisked her embroidered Norwegian coverall around his waist and tied the sash in a jaunty bow. It looked so incongruous on the lanky artist that she could not repress a giggle.

  Then she stiffened. From somewhere behind her came a dry, wheezing chuckle. It sounded as though someone was trying to laugh who had not laughed in a very long time.

  Every red hair on Corin’s scalp seemed to stand on end. “Alex,” she whispered, “did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Somebody laughed.”

  The young man only shrugged. “Can you blame ’em?” “But who was it?”

  “Madame Despau-Davy, I expect. Who else would it be?”

  “It wasn’t she,” insisted the girl. “She has a nice, mellow laugh. This was different.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “No, I’m not. Alex, there’s somebody watching us. I know it. I can feel it. I’ve felt it before, when I was here alone. Alex, I’m scared.”

  He turned and laid a soapsuddy hand on her shoulder. “Look, kid, maybe you did hear something. But if it’s what I think it was, there’s nothing to worry about. Wait here a second, while I find out.”

  He dried his hands on a dish towel and crossed the kitchen, the apron flapping about his long legs. Corin stood rooted to the spot, feeling a sudden wave of sheer panic as he disappeared out the door. In a few minutes, however, he was back, grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s okay. You can relax.”

  “What did you do?” she said shakily. “Hold a seance with the Fat Lady’s ghost?”

  “No, I bearded the Leo in his den. He was sort of overcome by seeing me in your apron, that’s all.”

  “Do you mean he was spying on us?”

  “Not spying. He just likes to look at you once in a while. He thinks you’re a knockout.”

  “Then why doesn’t he come and introduce himself, like a human being? I won’t have him peeking at me like that! I’m going to complain to Madame Despau-Davy.”

  “Hey, don’t do that. Poor old Leo doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “Then why does he act like a Peeping Tom? How do you know he doesn’t mean any harm?” She lowered her voice. “Remember what we found last night?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Has it occurred to you who’s the likeliest person to have hidden them down here?”

  “No. I’ve been racking my brain about it off and on all day.”

  “How blind can you get? Who’s down here alone all the time? Who never lets any of us even get a glimpse of him? Why is he hiding? Why does he creep around watching me, unless he’s afraid I might find something he doesn’t want me to see?”

  Alex shook his head. “I can see why you might suspect Leo, but you’re all wrong. You just don’t know him.”

  “Then why can’t I meet him?”

  Alex went back to washing dishes. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you just can’t. He doesn’t meet people, that’s all. Look, why don’t you run up now and get your art supplies? Put them down by the front door, with my stuff. I’ll be through here in a few minutes, then we’ll call a cab and go back to the studio.”

  He noticed her hesitation. “Go ahead, kid. It’s all right.”

  But was it? As Corin climbed the stairs, her footsteps grew slower and slower. Was she doing a wise thing, getting so closely involved with a young man about whom she knew so little?

  Why was Alex so eager to convince her that Leo had nothing to do with the hidden jewels, yet so reluctant to give her any information about his invisible friend? Why, if Leo was not a criminal, would he not come out of his dark basement room and let himself be seen?

  All at once she had an idea. Might Leo be another former member of Hanning Brothers’ Circus? What if he was one of the freaks from the sideshow? Could he be a midget, or a giant, or even the India-Rubber Man?

  But would that be any reason for him to keep out of sight the way he did? Such performers made their livings by being stared at. Why should he be so self-conscious about meeting a few people who lived in the same house with him?

  Of course, it was one thing being part of a circus and quite a different story being out in ordinary life. Leo might feel free with Alex, who had actually worked in a carnival, and still not be willing to meet the rest of the boarders.

  She was not convinced by her own theory; but the idea was at least mildly comforting. Anyway, she was not really committing herself to anything just by taking an armful of art supplies over to Alex’s studio. She could always bring them back again, if she sensed that there was something wrong with the arrangement.

  As she was staggering down the stairs under a stack of boxes and drawing pads, Jack Banks caught up with her.

  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving us!”

  “No, I’m just taking some stuff over to Alex’s new studio. He’s going to let me do my homework there,” she explained, hoping that Jack was not going to react with a childish display of jealousy.

  Somewhat to her annoyance, however, he seemed positively delighted with the news. “Hey, that’s great! A real artist’s studio, eh? I’ll have to drop around and get an eyeful of the Bohemian life.”

  “Don’t bother,” came Alex’s deeper voice. “There won’t be any fun and games. The studio is strictly a workroom; and visitors won’t be welcome.”

  “If you were anybody else, I’d think you were kidding,” smiled Jack. “I only hope you don’t think you’re going to keep this gorgeous doll out of circulation.”

  “What Corin does with her spare time is up to her,” said the artist stiffly. “Is that all your stuff, Corin? I’m going to call the cab now.”

  Jack stood around making bright remarks about artists and models until the taxi came. Then he helped them carry out their materials, held the door for Corin, and waved them off in the friendliest way possible.

  As they drove off, Alex shook his head. “I can’t figure that kid out. He makes a big play for you, then pulls a buddy-buddy act when you go off with another guy.”

  “I’m not going off with another guy,” snapped Corin. “We made it perfectly clear to him that this is strictly a working arrangement.” Not that she had wanted Jack to make a big scene, of course; but he could have been just a shade less pleased about her new association with Alex.

  The tall artist slumped down in the far corner of the seat. “I suppose he figures you’re safe enough with me,” he muttered. “No chick in her right mind would look at me with a guy like him around.”

  “Oh, Alex, don’t be a complete half-wit,” she exploded. “Why do you always have to be running yourself down? Jack Banks is nothing but a rich boy with a lot of surface charm and nothing whatever behind it, as far as I’ve been able to find out. You’re a gifted man who’s pulled himself up by the bootstraps, and I should think you’d have learned something about human values in the process.”

  Glancing over at her fellow passenger, she noticed for the first time how attractively his strong profile was outlined against the dark windowpane. “You’d even be better looking than Jack, if you’d put on some weight and get a haircut.”

&nbs
p; “You must be kidding!”

  “I am not. I’m going to fatten you up and prove it.” His teeth flashed in a sudden grin. “Corin, you’re quite a girl. Well, this is it.” The cab pulled up in front of the Fenway Building. He leaped to the sidewalk and drew a long breath. “This is the beginning.”

  And Corin was part of it. This was better than anything she had ever dreamed of back in Proctor’s Crossing. She had no illusions any more about her own work. She was not even going to do very much of it here at the studio probably. She was going to pose for Alex, to cook for Alex, to make his decisions on practical matters, and to prop up his faltering ego. She was going to matter to somebody as she had never mattered before. And she was going to help him create something real, something big and beautiful.

  Corin Johansen the Great Designer died without a struggle, right there on the sidewalk. Corin Johansen the human being reached into the taxi and scooped up an armload of art supplies. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter 14

  The following morning, Corin dragged Alex down to the kitchen and stuffed him with bacon and eggs and fresh hot muffins, on the theory that a full stomach makes a stiff upper lip. Then she gave him a thorough briefing on what to wear to the interview, how to behave, and what to say. Then she went to school and worried.

  In spite of all her hunches, would the collector reject the painting? Would Alex turn up on time and not ruin the sale by throwing one of his temperaments at the wrong moment? By half-past three, she was almost sick with anxiety.

  But at fifteen minutes to four, Alex appeared, freshly shaved and barbered. He had even managed to scrub most of the paint from under his fingernails and had remembered to put on a clean white shirt that still had most of its buttons. The only thing he had forgotten was a tie.

  Corin snatched the belt off her blue dress, whipped it under his collar, and tied it in a neat four-in-hand. “There,” she hissed, “stick the ends under your belt and keep your jacket buttoned and he’ll never know the difference.”

  Alex grinned nervously. “Thanks, mother. Come on, let’s get it over.”

  The girl hesitated. “I don’t think I ought to butt in.”

  His long fingers fastened around her arm like a vise. “You’ve got to come. I’m not tackling that guy alone.”

  Not slackening his grip for a moment, he marched her along to the studio where Mr. Hinkley was already waiting. A few minutes later, Mr. Oswega appeared.

  The four exchanged greetings and made small talk for a few minutes. Then Hink cleared his throat. “What say we get down to business?” He stepped to the easel, and turned Alex’s painting to viewing position.

  The collector looked at the canvas for a long time, without saying a word. Then he stepped back across the room and looked at it even longer. Then he called for the blinds to be drawn and viewed it under artificial light. Then he walked slowly from side to side, scrutinizing the portrait from every conceivable angle. Nobody spoke. Alex kept his painful grip on Corin’s arm.

  At last, after an eternity of suspense, Mr. Oswega pronounced his decision.

  “I must have this. An early Bodmin.” A gleam came into his shrewd black eyes. “I, Luis Hernandes y Oswega, shall be the first to purchase a Bodmin. I shall be envied among all collectors. My name will be on the lips of the entire art world.”

  “What about Alex’s name, Mister Oswega?” Corin could not resist saying.

  The collector blinked. “Bodmin? But of course, Bodmin. A fine name. Luis Hernandes y Oswega, discoverer of Bodmin. It sounds well, does it not?”

  Hink’s blue eyes twinkled. “Sounds great. You’re certainly making a brilliant move in buying this painting.”

  Sensing that Alex was beginning to simmer, Corin gave him a warning pinch. What difference did it make, her practical common sense argued, if this pretentious little man rode to fame on Alex Bodmin’s coattails? The important thing was that he would buy the painting, would show off his find to other collectors, and make them want to buy, too. Alex was launched on his career as a serious painter.

  “Now, as to price.” All at once, Oswega forgot his rhapsodies and became a hard man of business. “You understand, of course, Mister Bodmin, that you are as yet a complete unknown. By purchasing this work I am, in fact, conferring upon you the inestimable benefit of my personal patronage. You understand, therefore, that this gives me the privilege of, how shall we say, setting my own figure?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Alex mumbled.

  Corin Johnson was not redheaded for nothing. “On the other hand, Mister Oswega,” she said firmly, “Alex is giving you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity by letting you be first to see this painting. You know perfectly well that there are dozens of other collectors right here in Boston who’d jump at the chance to buy it. If you expect to hear your name on the lips of the entire art world, you ought to be willing to pay a fair price for the honor.”

  Behind the collector’s back, Mr. Hinkley collapsed in silent mirth.

  Oswega stared at her open-mouthed. Then he, too, exploded into laughter. “A beautiful businesswoman! Bodmin, I congratulate you not only on your great talent, but also on your charming taste in models. I give you five hundred dollars for the beautiful painting of this adorable young lady with the mind of a man.”

  “A thousand,” said Corin calmly.

  “Seven-fifty.”

  “Nine hundred.”

  “Eight hundred and fifty, if you will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner.”

  “Thank you,” said Corin. “We’d love to come.”

  Throughout the bargaining, Alex had not spoken a word. Still mute, he accepted the check which the collector made an elaborate ceremony of presenting to him. For a moment, he stared at the slip of green paper as if it were alive and ready to bite. Then he handed it to Corin. “Here,” he finally managed to croak, “you keep it.”

  Here, at last, was a achievement Corin could really feel smug about! “All right, she nodded, tucking it carefully into her handbag, “meet me at lunchtime tomorrow, and we’ll take it to the bank.”

  The group shook hands all around, carefully locked the newly-purchased painting into a supply closet until Alex should judge it dry enough to travel in safety to Mr. Oswega’s private gallery, and congratulated themselves and each other on a highly successful meeting. It was hard to tell which of them was most pleased: Mr. Hinkley, at his pupil’s triumph; Mr. Oswega, at being the first collector in all the world, as he reminded them several times, to collect a Bodmin; Alex, at having achieved both recognition and cash to pay his studio rent; or Corin, for the look in the painter’s eyes when he squeezed her hand and said, “Thanks, kid.”

  Hink said good night and went off to his waiting tribe. Mr. Oswega then hustled Corin and Alex over to his magnificent house on Commonwealth Avenue to show them the exact spot where the first Bodmin was to hang. He proved, once they got used to his air of perpetual self-congratulation, to be an agreeable host. He showed them all his treasures, fed them a sumptuous dinner, and entertained them with many lively tales of his adventures in the hazardous but fascinating world of art collecting. It was almost one o’clock when they finally left.

  Outside their own front door, the two young people dawdled on the steps.

  “I hate to go in,” Alex confessed. “What a day this has been! Corin, do you realize what selling that painting means to me?”

  “I know,” said the girl. “It means you’re somebody. It’s not just getting all that money; it’s knowing you’ve done something that counts. It’s, well, I guess you could say it gives you a sense of identity.”

  “Yeah, I’m the guy that gets collected by Luis Hernandes y Oswega.” Alex grinned; but for perhaps the first time in his life, he looked satisfied with himself. “How’d you like to drop around to the all-night hamburger joint for a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m too exhausted to walk that far. I’ll tell you what, let’s sneak down to the kitchen and make som
e.”

  The house was dark and incredibly still. They tiptoed through the long corridor and crept down the back stairs. Corin stepped inside the kitchen door and reached for the light switch.

  Her hand froze in mid-air.

  Through the high, narrow windows came a faint glimmer from the street lights. In its dim rays, she could just make out the grotesque bulk of a figure, all in white.

  “It’s Rosie Garside’s ghost!” she gasped.

  Alex began to advance stealthily toward the apparition. Corin trembled at his side, clutching a fold of his jacket, afraid to go closer, yet more terrified to be left behind in the dark.

  Suddenly, they sensed that the figure had become aware of their approach. It moved. Instantly, they were gasping and choking, tearing in anguish at their horribly burning eyes.

  “Corin! Corin!” Through a haze of pain and terror, the girl heard Alex’s frantic voice. “Are you all right? Where are you? I can’t see!”

  “Neither can I.” She was coughing retchingly now.

  Then she felt a strong yet gentle arm around her, leading her out of the poisoned atmosphere, putting cold water, then soothing ointment on her tortured face.

  She could hear Alex’s voice again. “No, look after Corin first. What happened to us?”

  “Looks to me like you got a blast from one o’ them new pocket gas guns right smack in the face,” said a voice she had never heard before. “It’ll pass off after a while, I reckon. Just sit tight and don’t rub your eyes.”

  Gradually, the pain and the choking sensation ebbed. Corin realized that she was lying on a neatly made bed. Too exhausted even to thank her unknown rescuer, she simply lay there, drawing in deep breaths of untainted air, feeling the relief of the comforting ointment on her eyes.

  At last, she sat up. “I feel better now,” she gasped, “but I still can’t see.”

  Her groping hand encountered a small lamp beside the bed. Its bulb was cold. “Maybe if I had some light—” she flipped the switch, and her vision was miraculously restored. But for a desperate moment, she wished she were blind again.