Homer fiddled with the key.
“You found this key in the door?”
“Yep. Shipley locked himself in and left the key just the way you see it. Made it impossible to unlock the door from the outside.”
“Then somebody had another key?”
“Yep. Shipley’s secretary, Miss Deming.” Swink reached into his pants and showed the key. “Only other key to the door there is.” He demonstrated how the inside key had jammed the lock.
“Let me get this straight,” said Homer. “Miss Deming, then, had the key with her at the time she heard the shot?”
“No, she didn’t. The key was up in her room, she says. Says she heard the shot when she was in the library. She ran to the door, scared stiff. The butler came next. In the excitement, she forgot all about her key. The butler broke down the door.”
There was a pause, while Homer scrawled the item in his book. Then he stepped through the door into the hallway and stood there, staring into the studio. His eyes were fixed upon the stain of blood near the window. Finally he began to walk backwards slowly, until he stood in the gloom of the dining room. There he remained, while Swink scratched his head, squinted at me confusedly, and blew through his mustache.
Homer returned.
“Was there any light in the studio when the body was discovered?”
“I’ll be damned!” said Swink. “Never thought o’ that question. Never asked.”
“Just a straw,” Homer said. “I’m not sure it means anything.”
Swink walked at Homer’s heels while he toured the room.
“Strange place,” murmured Homer. “Damnedest studio I ever did see.” He faced the easel, arms akimbo. “Look here, Hank. This easel backs up on the North light. Why do artists insist on North light, if not to make use of it?”
He was right. The massive easel stood with its back to the North window.
“Hell, Shipley wasn’t a long hair,” I explained. “He didn’t really need that light.”
“So?”
“He might have been working at night, the last time he used the easel,” I added, and pointed to the fancy lighting contraption to the left of it. “He might have been using this gadget.”
Swink said: “You think of the dangedest things, Bull.”
“Only straws, Swink. Only straws.” He fingered his jowls. “You don’t suppose the easel could have been moved, eh, Swink?”
“It weren’t moved!” snapped Swink. “No solitary thing in this room was moved, unless Shipley fixed it that way before he died.”
“You’ve had someone in this room since then?”
Swink was flustered. “Well, no. But I noticed the danged thing when I came in the room. It sat just the way you see it.”
Homer lifted the easel and peered at the rug. “You’re probably right.” He rubbed the oak frame, fiddled with the palette, scraping with his fingernail. I saw him pocket a few tubes of paint before he turned away and crossed the room to the wall of drapes.
I fingered the stuff. “Crepe de chine, Homer?”
“Figured monk’s cloth,” he corrected, holding the material up to the light. “Rather novel, don’t you think, covering the whole wall with it?”
“Ducky! A decorator’s dream. At ten cents a foot profit, some pantywaist must have bought himself a seat in the yard goods industry.”
Swink was bored. “What do you think, Bull?”
Homer sank heavily into a chair and played with his jaw. “I think we should have an inquest.”
The country dick was excited at the idea. “Then you’ve got a hunch, too? You think you have something?”
“I don’t know—I’m only guessing. But if you can arrange to have your inquest on Wednesday afternoon, I have an idea that it will prove—ah—worth our while, Swink.”
Swink paced the floor. I caught a quick wink from Homer. Swink turned on his heel suddenly.
“I’ll call Bruck right away!”
“Good!” said Homer, and got up. He walked through the door whistling through his teeth, as happy as a lark.
A fat lark.
CHAPTER 4
Grace Knows From Nothing
Homer’s severest critics (in the Brooklyn Police Department) would always say: “Homer Bull? That butterball! He takes his time—and everybody else’s!”
But Wilkinson, the man who mattered, would add: “So what, you plugs? Ain’t I always told you slow and steady wins the race?”
Which meant that Wilkinson thought Homer slow, but steady. It also meant that Wilkinson approved of Homer’s methods and always appreciated his results. He would walk into the flat, loaded down with pictures, files and fingerprints, and wait with his cigar while Homer sighed and fussed and inevitably emerged from the débris with a good idea. But slowly. Homer always took his clues as they came. Even when confronted with witnesses, suspects, stools, or gunmen, the system remained the same. Homer allowed them the calm of a drink or a good cigar. Homer came late, but he stayed long. No fuss, no bother, no rub-in—and never a third degree.
We were alone in the library. Homer relaxed. He had returned from Grace’s room bright-eyed and eager, just as though she might have given him an important shred of evidence, or a hint, or something else, maybe. You never could tell, with Homer. We had then wandered through half of the house, like weekend guests on the loose. We gawked at the collection of French Impressionists in the main hall, admired the view from the broad windows in the living room and even paused for a one-sided billiard fracas in the pine-paneled game room.
Now he toyed with a volume of the collected works of Shipley, a gaudy scrap book as big as a table top, while I dug deep into a choice bit of pornography, illustrated by a madman. (I made a mental note to take this tidbit away with me. Kleptomania runs in my family.)
“Shipley’s later illustrations seem to have suffered a change,” said Homer brightly. “And when I say suffered, I mean improved.”
I dropped the pornography grudgingly and looked over his shoulder. “You’ve got a keen eye, Sherlock—his style has changed. He must have been really trying to draw a bit in his last moments.”
I hardly noticed Swink and Nevin walk in. When I looked up from the meaty tome, Homer had already said hello, and nodded me into the group.
“That’s fruity stuff, eh?” said Nevin.
“Very bad art,” I said. “It smells of high school washrooms.”
“You’ve picked up the worst in Hugo’s collection,” Nevin said. “I’d recommend the Heinrich Kley. At least Kley could draw that sort of tripe.”
Homer arranged the party in his corner, leaving me to the book if the going got boresome. I looked over the edge of the cover at Nevin.
He seemed tired. He was a handsome guy, indeed, in a dark blue ski suit, skillfully designed to promote his broad shoulders and conceal the slight droop in them. He had an odd face—the face of a college boy who has only aged around the eyes. The face was cherubic, photogenic. But the eyes were very tired. His features had the baffling simplicity of the guy you always think you know in the subway. He looked at you out of the past. You knew him from somewhere, somehow. His eyes had the tired, simple stare of an overworked clothing model, or an overworked law clerk, or the good-looking guy your sister used to go with.
Swink said: “Mr. Nevin’s just been out skiing.” (He mouthed it as though he meant: “Here’s the first one. See what you can do with him.”)
“Just up to the big hill,” said Nevin. “Thought I’d like to sketch that big old oak.”
“You do art work?” I asked. “Let’s see what you got.”
“Oh, I’m no artist,” he said. “Just fiddle a bit with a pencil. I couldn’t even get started today—too cold.”
“I suppose Shipley has marked a few trails on this hill of his?” Homer asked.
“Three of them,” said Nevin. “And all excel
lent. But poor Hugo never lived to really enjoy them—this was the first year the trails were usable.”
“A pity. Shipley must have been an expert at the sport, from all the reports I’ve read.”
“He was unbeatable.”
Homer squinted at the end of his cigar for a long time and said nothing. I remembered the trick. Homer really disliked asking questions—annoying people—with pot shots. It was always much easier, he said, to annoy them with silence. He was trying to force the next few words from Nevin. He wanted Nevin to say something, anything, unquestioned.
But the deadly quiet didn’t break. Nevin leaned on his elbows and stared at the rug. The trick had failed.
“Know Shipley long?” Homer asked finally.
“For about five years.”
“Through business?”
“No, we were good friends.” I thought I heard his voice tremble on the last word. He kept staring down at his legs. “I met Hugo in his penthouse—when he had one on Madison Avenue.” He spoke slowly, almost measuring his words, like a high school orator making rebuttal.
“At one of his famous parties?”
Nevin looked up at Homer. “Yes, it was at a party. He told me he might use me for one of his illustrations. That was how I got to know him, you see. We’ve been close friends ever since.”
Suddenly I understood how I came to know this man. I had seen his face over and over again in Shipley’s illustrations. Nevin’s handsome pan had appeared in every national magazine that featured Shipley. It must have certainly hit Homer the same way, I knew, and wondered what he would do with the thought.
“Ever up here before?” Homer asked.
There was a pause.
“Once or twice.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A few years ago—maybe three.”
“Now, that’s odd,” said Homer honestly. “You say you were good friends, and yet you rarely visited him here. How come?”
Nevin seemed annoyed with that one. “I—Hugo knew that I didn’t care for his parties, nor his so-called friends.”
“I see,” Homer almost apologized. “Then you met him in town, usually?”
“Yes. We saw each other almost every time Hugo came to town.”
Homer studied his cigar, and I felt another spell of quiet coming on. But this time the trick worked.
Nevin said: “I think Hugo understood and appreciated my attitude about his—his friends.”
“I don’t understand,” said Homer. “You mean that Shipley knew that a lot of his friends were phoney?”
Nevin smiled wryly. “Indeed he did. As a matter of fact, Hugo had started a book about them.”
“You’re not serious?” Homer feigned surprise.
“Oh yes. Hugo thought his friends interesting enough for publication. Too bad he died—I think he would have had a best-seller.”
“He had a sense of humor, didn’t he?”
“Hugo wasn’t kidding in that book, from what he told me.” Nevin rose.
Homer said: “I think you can help me, Nevin. I’m curious about this last weekend party, especially since I was invited. Do you think Shipley intended to invite only those people who would annoy each other? Sort of a gathering of cross-purposes?”
Nevin thought a moment. “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t invited—just dropped by. You see, these people are all strangers to me.”
“Even so, would you say that Shipley might invite such a mixed group up here with that idea in mind? Sort of a gag?”
“Possibly.” Nevin started for the door.
Swink said: “By the way, Mr. Nevin, I just spoke to the coroner. He says there’ll be an inquest on Wednesday afternoon.”
Nevin was deadpan. “Does that mean we must stay in the house?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Very well. I’ll see you later. Got to take off these ski togs.”
When Nevin had gone, Swink asked anxiously: “What do you make of that bird?”
Homer chuckled. “Make of him? I make nothing of him. Old friend of Shipley’s—a bit broken up by his death.”
“Seems like a nice guy,” I added. “Can’t blame him for hating the lice Shapley called his friends.”
“Did you meet any of the others?” Swink asked.
“I visited with Miss Lawrence. A very charming piece. My ex-wife, you know.”
Swink said: “Unh? Well, I’d better tell the others about the inquest.”
Homer waited until Swink had gone before allowing himself a whinny. “That old scallion’ll be changing his pants from sheer excitement, or I miss my guess.”
“He and I both. What’s cooking?”
“I visited with the Mintons after Grace. A very funny couple. Superman. A little on the moronic side. Says he and his wife heard Lester—and he does do the beds—would make a swell antagonist for the shot from the kitchen—it’s only a dozen yards away. Lester found Miss Deming wailing at the door. Lester then proceeded to force the door. He says it was easy—it would be, for Lester. When the door was opened, Miss Deming fainted. Then Mrs. Minton joined her in a sympathetic faint.”
“Must be an ox. I thought that door looked pretty solid.”
“Not an ox—an ape. Lester is a reformed Mongolian monster—about sixty-two, with football shoulders and a torso like Gargantua.”
“You should know.”
Homer grinned. “And that brings us to Grace. She’s well heeled. Gone high hat.” He closed his eyes. “But still—ah—charming.”
“I suppose you gave her the business? I mean with questions?”
“Her story fits. I mean to say that if we find confusion here, little Gracie had no stake in it. Her job is hooking Trum—even though she doesn’t seem to have her heart in her work.”
“Neat,” I teased. “Detective eliminates ex-wife from gruesome slaying!”
“Nonsense,” he said to his cigar. “Detective does nothing of the sort. But how does cockeyed cartoonist deduce the man murdered?”
“You asked for an inquest.”
“You are thinking wishfully, sonny.”
“Nuts! Why not allow the characters to go home, then?”
“I can dream, can’t I?” Homer smiled slyly.
“Not with our deadline coming up,” I snapped.
“Touché!” said Homer. “You are beginning to think like a lending library detective. You’re maturing, Hank. Pretty soon you will stop talking in gag-line patois, and then I’ll be bringing the clues to you.”
“Stop salving me, Homer. Have you got anything?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he said seriously. “The threads are beginning to unravel in this thing. They may lead us somewhere. They may lead us behind the eight ball.”
I groaned. “Double talk! You mean you haven’t any ideas—even silly ideas? What about Gavano? Did Grace drop any hints? Do you think it’s murder, really?”
“One thing at a time!” Homer closed his eyes and made a little face. “I haven’t got a thing on Gavano, Watson. And all I could get from Grace—ah—didn’t amount to much. She reports that she walked into the studio after Lester and his wife and Olympe Deming were there. She was number four.” He got up and tapped me on the chest. “You see, there isn’t much, so far.”
I saw. He was throwing me crumbs—giving me things to think about. He was offering me the facts and retaining his conclusions. Oh, well, maybe Homer had only come up for the chance to be around Grace. Love is a business I get only from comic strips. Was that love-light agleam in Homer’s baby blue eyes? Could be. But I could imagine a man looking that way after his second shot of rye. Or a winner at Jamaica. Could it be that Homer was going love-punchy?
“I don’t suppose Grace could tell you much about the others?” I let sarcasm creep into my questions.
“How could s
he?” Homer sighed. “The little dove has eyes for nobody but Trum.”
“She must have changed.”
“Not at all. A little broader in the beam, perhaps, but otherwise she’s the same old Gracie. A gal with a purpose.”
“Trum must be a prize package.”
“Trum is. He has a corner in the cigarette mart. His cash register tinkles every time we take a drag, Hank. He’s well salted, all right, but he’s got a past as black as Mussolini’s shirt. Five wives.” He held up a pudgy hand. “Can’t you just see our Gracie as the sixth Mrs. Trum?”
“I can’t see Gracie nohow.”
“You are a man of violent dislikes, sonny.” Homer chuckled. “It doesn’t become a detective to dislike so thoroughly. We must take our evidence where we find it and reserve all judgments for the last chapter.”
“Should I apologize?” I asked.
“For disliking Gracie?” He actually laughed out loud. “Fiddlesticks! You and I are in perfect agreement there. But we must not be too hard on the lady, sonny. She has her good points, even though they can only be appreciated by an ex-husband.”
“You have hit the frail right on the head,” I gagged.
Homer joined me in the ensuing laughter.
CHAPTER 5
Homer Plays Professor Quiz
We were gulping Minnie Minton’s coffee and munching her scones when Swink minced in.
“They’re all in the living room, Bull,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”
“Go where?” he frowned.
“Inside,” said Swink blankly. “To question ’em.”
Homer was caught between dunks.
“I can’t see any reason for gathering them in one room and going through an imitation inquest. What have you told them?”
Swink explained that he had told them it was to be an examination before the inquest.
“Is that legal?”
“Nothing illegal about it. Got Eileen Tucker to take it all down in shorthand. I don’t see why you—”
“I suppose it’s all right. I just didn’t like the idea of facing an audience, I guess. Let’s go.”
I counted eleven of them in the living room, including Minnie Minton, who sat playing with her apron in the corner. Homer told them that there would be a few questions, opened his little book and rubbed his nose. A little guy in an Esquirish jacket jumped up to shake Homer’s hand.
Death Paints the Picture Page 3
