by Jerry eBooks
Thus far, in Morosco’s eyes, the visit of the Princess Gobolinsky, whom he believed to be the Princess Gobolinsky, and that of Mr. Peter Larsen were unrelated phenomena. But they became related when, Inter that day, the sleuth reported that they were taking tea together at the Café de Paris, across from the casino. Anxious to confirm this with his own eyes, Morosco closed his business premises an hour earlier than usual. From a shrubbery in the gardens he was able to see them clearly, talking earnestly and from time to time consulting documents which Mr. Larsen carried in a thin, gold-mounted, crocodile-skin briefcase.
Business for Morosco had not been too good lately. He did not deal in valuable pictures, partly because he lacked the capital to do so, and partly because he lacked the necessary knowledge. Morosco’s genius was in acquiring attractive pictures cheaply; pictures which to the undiscriminating, who are the many, seemed gay and pleasing. He catered to people who reiterated: “I don’t know anything about Art, but I do know what I like.” Hanging on the walls of the galleries were some two hundred-odd pictures by Victorian has-beens or never-wases and completely unknown moderns waiting hopefully for the kiss of Fame.
On the following morning the distinguished Mr. Peter Larsen paid another visit to the galleries, bowed as before to Morosco, repealing his unhurried scrutiny of the pictures and saying nothing. Pete “Grand Larceny” Larsen was a first-class illusionist and, like every salesman who ever lived, was selling himself, building up in Morosco’s mind an indelible picture of a rich, successful man of unimpeachable integrity; a man who would not be thus interesting himself in the meretricious artistic garbage which—none knew better than its owner—was the stock-in-trade of the Morosco Fine Art Galleries. It followed, therefore, as the night follows the day, that the opulent Mr. Peter Larsen, acting as the buying agent of the incredibly rich Princess Gobolinsky, had found among the two hundred mediocrities some immensely valuable Old Master or other artistic treasure.
That was a Friday. The lights of the Morosco Fine Art Galleries remained on all that night while Morosco himself, tortured and hag-ridden by his doubts, examined every picture in his possession in the hope of penetrating the secret locked in the heart of Mr. Peter Larsen. Morosco’s doubts and perplexities were equaled only by those of Mary Larsen, the reformed “Petty Larceny,” who was wondering whether she had not been a trifle hasty about reforming. Now that Pete and his confederate, the spurious Princess Gobolinsky (whose claims to royal blood were no more spurious than those of the couple of hundred or so other Riviera princesses), were unable to forgather at Fred’s Bar, meetings were being arranged elsewhere, so that it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep tabs on them. Mary was worried, for La Gobolinsky even if it was, as Pete assured her, strictly business—was far too attractive for a girl’s peace of mind. She loved Pete to distraction and she was determined not to lose him to this husky brunette, or any other woman.
Strange as it may seem, too, Mary’s decision to reform had stemmed from a genuine distaste for her mode of life. She was tired of the shabby crooks who lived upon the fringes of everything, like hungry gulls seeking to pounce upon any neglected titbit. She was tired, too, of being constantly on the move, fearful lest her own and Pete’s past would catch up with them. She wanted a home, babies, in short, a normal life. Hotel acquaintances were, she found, a poor substitute for friendly neighbors. When, as from time to time she did, she said these things to Pete, he merely laughed, unable to believe that she meant them. “I don’t want to become a prison widow, Pete,” she had once said tearfully. “I don’t want to come and visit you once a month, or whatever it is, and talk to you through iron bars with a guard listening.”
“They won’t catch me,” Pete had replied. “so don’t worry.”
Bin Mary did worry, because she knew that in the long run the “wide boys” were always caught. Whitt made it worse was that Mary knew that Pete could have succeeded in anything he gave his talents to. He was a born salesman. That alone opened unlimited doors to him.
Originally, it was Pete’s aura of glamour which had appealed to Mary—the splendid outlaw to whom the ordinary rules did not apply. But although he had seemed perfect to her then, she had married him with the firm intention of changing him. That the attitude was illogical had seemed beside the point.
Now Mary was unhappy, bitterly so. Not only did she live in terror of Pete’s falling into the clutches of the law, or La Gobolinsky—the one as bad as the other—but she was tired of spending most of her waking hours in the bathroom listening on the extension phone to the staccato exchanges between Pete and his I confederate. Nevertheless, the plan of campaign against Morosco was beginning to take shape in her mind and—despite her new-found stale of grace—she could not but admire Pete’s subtle strategy and meticulous attention to the smallest details. Within the narrow limits of his chosen mode of life, Pete was a perfectionist.
On the Saturday morning, after a sleepless night spent in his artistic garbage heap hunting vainly for Old Masters, Morosco was not at his best. His coffee, drunk at his desk, tasted of lye. The bright Mediterranean sunshine ranked as an affliction, sent by Providence especially to aggravate his blinding headache. In short, he was in that condition when, in dire need of calm judgment, he had none at all.
There was something akin to terror in his heart when, around eleven o’clock in the morning, he saw crossing the street the debonair figure of Mr. Peter Larsen, looking rested, well-groomed and utterly at ease, obviously a man without a care in the world.
Once again, Mr. Larsen bowed courteously, but did not speak. Morosco, conscious of his own rumpled clothes and unshaven chin, and not daring to leave the premises for a shave, waned for another long, agonizing hour while the distinguished stranger conducted his leisurely scrutiny. At the end of the hour Mr. Larsen paused at Morosco’s desk on the way toward the exit.
“Monsieur Morosco?” he asked with uplifted eyebrows.
“At your service, monsieur.” replied the other, bowing. They shook hands with much cordiality. The advantage of the meeting was with Pete, who was not supposed to know, but did know, that the other believed him to be Mr. Peter Larsen, of the Larsen Pine Art Galleries, New York City, which, incidentally, did not exist or, if they did exist, existed without Pete’s knowledge. Neither then, nor later, did Pete ever tell Morosco these represented himself to be other than what he was—plain Mr. Peter Larsen.
Now Pete, still smiling gravely at Morosco, looked at his watch, managing to inject into this simple action something subtle which implied that his time was valuable. “Monsieur Morosco,” he said in a cold, precise manner, which heightened the illusion, “I will return here at three o’clock this afternoon. Will you be good enough at that time to set a price upon your entire stock of pictures? Francs or dollars, as you please. May I count on your co-operation? Until three o’clock then. Monsieur Morosco. Au revoir!”
While Morosco was still choking with emotion, the other bowed courteously and made his exit.
Never in his long and larcenous career had Morosco found himself in such a predicament. Giving instructions that he was not on any account to be interrupted, he sat at his desk while he did some figuring. Four fifths of the stock, as he well knew, was worth little more than the cost of the canvas and frames: some, alas, even less! Twenty years thence, by some unpredictable turn of Fortune’s wheel or the vagaries of fashion, a few—a pitifully few—might become valuable. The entire stock had cost Morosco well under 2,000,000 francs—call it $5000. Sold one at a time by retail, he would be content with a modest 500-percent profit, but sold en bloc to the manner suggested by this man Larsen, he did not know what profit to ask. Meanwhile, less than three hours remained to the three-o’clock deadline. Morosco wasted one of those hours in making another fruitless tour of the galleries, hoping to find some great work, sticking out like a sore thumb from amongst the remainder of the wretched daubs.
Morosco was unused to round sums: he had never dealt in them. In turn, $20,000, $30,
000 and $50.000. occurred to him as good asking prices, but he rejected them all in turn for the same reason, All three prices were fantastically high if the stock was no better than it seemed, bus absurdly low if, as Morosco now suspected, among these lowly geese he was harboring a swan. This last was almost too terrifying to contemplate.
What did Larsen know that he, Morosco, did not know? That was the question which tortured the picture dealer and would go on torturing him until the matter was resolved.
By five minutes to three, Morosco was a nervous wreck, still undecided as to the price he should put upon his wares.
At three o’clock precisely—was not punctuality the virtue of princes?—Pete Larsen stepped out of an opulent limousine and, still wearing his grave, courteous smile, entered the galleries. “Well, Monsieur Morosco?” he said expectantly.
Morosco had reached his decision—lo stall.
“There is a difficulty, Monsieur Larsen,” he begun. “Several of the pictures here are for sale on commission—others to be restored. If I may remove these from the walls, it will be possible to fix a price.”
“All or nothing, Monsieur Morosco,” said Pete severely. “Let us not speak of difficulties, for there are always difficulties. Include them in the price.”
Morosco, who was now not far off hysteria. said, “If monsieur will only indicate to me the picture, or pictures, in which he is specially interested, I am sure it will be possible to arrive at a mutually agreeable price.”
“I see no reason why I should present you gratis with the benefit of my knowledge. Monsieur Morosco,” said Pete coldly. “I will buy all your pictures, or none. It is for you to put a price on them. If the price is acceptable, I will give you a check now. If the price is too high, I will bid you good day and that will end the matter.”
There was a cold finality in his voice. It was only by the exercise of iron will that Morosco could maintain selfcontrol as he watched Pete put his checkbook on the desk, followed by a gold fountain pen. “Forgive me for reminding you, Monsieur Morosco, but I am a busy man. I do not disguise from you.” continued Pete, “that I intend to make a profit on the transaction, but, equally, I recognize your right to do so also. So set your price at a figure which will satisfy us both.”
Although Morosco saw a fortune slipping through his lingers, he could not bring himself to set a price. If it was too high, the other would smile, bow and leave the premises forever. But if it was too low and it was to transpire afterward that he had sold some fabulous artistic treasure for a fraction of its true value, Morosco believed that he would never sleep again.
The licking of a small mantel clock sounded to the dealer like the racing footsteps of doom. “Very well, Monsieur Morosco,” said Pete after a silence which had become brittle, “since you seem unable, or unwilling, to set a price, and I do not wish to extend this conversation indefinitely, I will make you an offer. I offer you fifty thousand dollars for your entire stock and I will give you, furthermore, until noon on Monday to accept or refuse.”
Thus reprieved, Morosco uttered a deep sigh of relief. Now he knew where he stood—or thought he did. “But,” continued Pete sternly, “this offer is conditional upon these galleries being scaled now—in the presence of a notary—and remaining sealed until Monday at noon.”
To this Morosco agreed and when, more than an hour later, they parted with expressions of mutual esteem, the doors and windows of the Morosco Fine Art Galleries were under seal. Morosco, barring accidents, was hooked.
As was expected of him, Morosco spent most of that evening on the telephone, telling the owners of pictures which had been entrusted to him for sale, or for other reasons, that he had received small offers for them. Would they accept? The only owner he failed to locale was the owner of the “reputed” Rembrandt, Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec, who, he learned from the lips of La Gobolinsky, posing as the maid, was returning on Monday morning. Not wanting the owner of these pictures to see the seals on the doors and windows of the galleries, Morosco arranged to call early on the Monday morning to discuss “a small matter of business.” Morosco then went home to Beaulieu, some four mites out of Monte Carlo, hoping that with the aid or sleeping pills he would be able to get some sleep.
Meanwhile Mary, listening on the bathroom extension phone, was brought up to date regarding the progress of events, as Pete reported them to La Gobolinsky. It might be true, as Pete often assured her. that this was “strictly business,” but Mary’s quick car detected a subtle difference to the relationship. The word “we” seemed overworked. There was a husky intimacy in La Gobolinsky’s voice which she did not like, but it was not until the end of the conversation that Mary heard what she had feared to hear.
“You know. Pete,” the other said, injecting unutterable things into her voice, “you and me”—Riviera princesses are notoriously weak on grammar—“you and me should work together for keeps. We’d really clean up. What do you say?”
What would he say? That was what Mary could not wait to hear. There was a pulse beating in her throat.
“We haven’t landed this sucker yet,” replied Pete cautiously, “There’ll be time enough to talk of that when we have.”
Mary began to weep softly. She had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that Pete’s answer would be a categorical refusal. True, he had not agreed to a permanent partnership, but he had left the door open—and that was almost more than she could bear.
It was not Mary’s way to waste time shedding futile tears, which solved nothing, Tins was a time for action. No phony brunette princess was going to steal Pete from her.
The plot to swindle Morosco was, as Mary knew a relatively small-scale operation, designed to tide them over a temporary shortage or ready cash and to provide the wherewithal to finance something larger and more ambitious. Pete and La Gobolinsky were working upon the assumption that Morosco, sooner than be forced to refuse the offer of $50,000 for his entire stock, could be persuaded to pay up to $15,000 for the “reputed” Rembrandt, Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec left with him by La Gobolinsky’s friend. By tile time this had been cut three ways, Pete’s share would be a miserable $5000. It wasn’t much and. adding to this the possibility of losing Pete. Mary knew that the time for action had come.
Mary spoke French fluently, so it did not take her long to learn the number of Morocco’s private phone at Beaulieu. She announced herself to Morosco as Madame Larsen. “I think, monsieur,” she said silkily, “that a brief conversation with me might save you a great sum of money. I prefer not to say any more on the telephone.”
So that Morosco should be satisfied that she was, in fact, Mrs. Peter Larsen, she told him to inquire at the hotel concierge’s desk. He did just this and they left the hotel together in his car. At Mary’s suggestion, he drove her to a discreet café where they might talk privately.
When they were scaled at an alcove table, she launched directly into her subject in a way a Latin would understand. “You see before you, monsieur, a jealous woman.”
“I am sure,” retorted Morosco gallantly, “that madame has no need to be jealous of any other woman.”
“Alas, monsieur, I wish that it were so,” said Mary sadly, “but-how can I be expected to hold my husband against a woman who is not only beautiful—let us not deny that—but who possesses a fortune of untold millions? Oil wells sprout on her land like weeds.”
“Madame refers, doubtless, to the Princess Gobolinsky?”
“What makes it worse,” replied Mary, nodding assent, “is that my husband is a very rich man, who does not need her money.”
Morosco, who had nearly refused to leave his house, thanked his stars that he had come, for he knew now that he had struck pay dirt. “Alas, madame,” he said, his voice vibrant with sympathy, “the follies men will commit are beyond understanding.”
“What does it matter to a woman like that,” continued Mary, “whether she pays twenty thousand dollars or two hundred thousand dollars for a valuable picture? She could buy one every day.”
Morosco was compelled to swallow a brandy hastily in order to steady his nerves.
“Tell me, monsieur,” continued Mary, destroying whatever was left of the poor man’s critical faculties, “tell me something I am curious to know—whether at any time you have done my husband some great injury? Otherwise, I do not understand how a man of his talents and high reputation could stoop for that woman’s sake to such infamy.”
“No, madame, never! That I swear by all I hold most holy!”
“Ah! I thought not. She must have bewitched him. For me it is the end. Tomorrow—tomorrow I shall leave him. I was poor before and I would either be poor again than endure this bitter humiliation——”
“Madame’s noble sentiments do her credit,” said Morosco, who by this time was chattering with excitement. “But why. madame, will you tell me, does Monsieur Larsen offer me fifty thousand dollars for the contents of the galleries?”
“He offers you the paltry sum of fifty thousand dollars for the contents of the galleries when one picture alone——”
“Yes, madame——?”
“How low will a man sink in order to impress a woman with his astuteness? I fear, monsieur, that you must regard me as indiscreet and, worse, disloyal—but you do not know what I have suffered. Do not think too hardly of me, monsieur. Forget what! have told you—tomorrow I shall have gone.” Mary rose as though to leave. This, as she knew, was the moment—the climax—the prelude to the payoff.
