Death Paints the Picture

by Lawrence Lariar

  Homer shrugged. “Maybe you have.”

  “If I have, I’m playing it alone—my way. This thing is going to break in my column, if little Nicky has the right angle.”

  “And if Nicky is wrong?”

  Nicky opened his mouth in a smirk, but he closed it fast. Gavano walked into the room, and behind him Stanley Nevin and Trum.

  “See you in the funny papers,” whispered Nicky, on the way out.

  “Not if I see you first,” mumbled Homer to the end of his cigar.

  We strolled into the library together, where I told Homer my story, including the cigarette butt (which he pocketed), the snack with the Mintons and the search up in Grace’s room.

  Homer blew hot and cold.

  “The business on the hill doesn’t seem worth much,” he said. “After all, anybody might have been up on the hill this afternoon. Nevin may have had a date with—ah—any one of the girls—Eileen, or Olympe, or Grace.”

  “That’s why I followed the lead,” I explained. “I thought it might be important. Anyhow, it wasn’t Grace.”

  “Of course not. Nevin’s not her type,” he grinned. “Grace runs to the fat boy, sugar daddy type.”

  When I mentioned Pindo and Lester, he blew hot, and jerked out his notebook.

  “There you have something—something that I wasn’t able to squeeze out of Lester. Pindo is a notorious Brooklyn racketeer. So is Gavano. There may be a fit somewhere.”

  “And don’t forget Pindo’s daughter, Tina.”

  “Not for a minute will I forget Tina, sonny. I’ll get a line on these people when I call the Shtunk—I’m sure he can ferret them all.”

  “Even Tina?”

  “The Shtunk gets around. I have an idea—” He nibbled on his eraser and stared at the rug. “But I wonder? I wonder what Nicky knows?”

  I wondered, too. “Think we can get to him?”

  Homer shook his head. “Nicky’s still a reporter at heart, Hank. He’ll save his little angle, his piece of information, until he’s sure it’s useless. But I’ll have to stop guessing now.” He patted his vest. “I find it hard to think on an empty stomach.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Comic Strip Tease

  I was eating again, this time in the library. We had drooled through a table full of roast Hank with the savor of cloves and the tang of wine and now sat back nibbling a cheese that smelled bad enough to enjoy.

  He tossed me a few pages.

  “When you begin to read,” Homer added, “you will be reading the answer to our first and most important question: ‘Who last saw Shipley alive?’”

  I began to read.

  7:15-7:20 MINNIE MINTON

  Minnie says she last saw Shipley standing near his easel when she passed through the hall at this time. She had a quick squint into the studio, but because of the angle (and the fact that she was only passing through the hall on the way to her room), Minnie could not say whether Shipley was alone. When she returned from her room, sometime later, the door was closed.

  7:16-7:20 STANLEY NEVIN

  Nevin dropped in for a chat with Shipley at this time. They had cocktail and discussed art for a while. Nevin says that Shipley seemed in good spirits, made a date to meet him in New York during the week. (Something about an Illustrators’ Show at Radio City. Check this.) Nevin excused himself after a while—had a bad headache. Went to his room after about ten minutes with Shipley.

  7:40 NICKY ENGLISH

  Enter Nicky English, who reports that he went to the studio to try to pump Shipley about that story. Says Shipley didn’t act at all strange—but hinted “that he may have been a bit nervous. It’s hard to tell with Shipley.” Had a cocktail and asked Shipley about the story. Shipley seemed almost ready to say something when—

  7:50 (APP’X) LESTER MINTON

  (by Lester and Nicky)

  Lester knocked at the door to tell Shipley that Eileen Tucker was waiting to take dictation. Shipley walked to the door, told Lester to have Eileen wait in the library until 8:30. Lester went away to tell Eileen. Nicky remained. Tried for the story again. Shipley said: “Come back a little after nine.” Nicky left just as—

  7:55 GRACE LAWRENCE

  walked in. Grace, too, had a cocktail. (Shipley must have had a barrel of it in the room.) Grace says she doesn’t remember how long she stayed. She admired his sketch on the easel. Shipley seemed nervous, unpoised, not his usual self. Rubbed his forehead and complained of a “filthy headache.” Usually a brilliant conversationalist—but this time the talk dragged. She asked him whether he felt well. Said he did, but didn’t look it. She, too, asked him whether he would be represented in Illustrators’ Show in New York. Shipley said “yes,” but didn’t seem interested. Then, in walked—

  8:15 MIKE GAVANO

  (Grace left in a hurry—she can’t stand Gavano.) Mike says he had a short one. Came in to find out what Shipley wanted him to do for the rest of the weekend. (Doesn’t explain why he did nothing up until then.) Shipley just told him to keep his eyes open. Mike reports that he looked sick, down in the mouth, on edge, jumpy. Shipley ordered Mike out when—

  8:30 LESTER MINTON AND EILEEN TUCKER

  Punctual Lester appeared at the studio door with Eileen. He and Gavano walked out together. Eileen says: Shipley waved her to a seat and began to pace the room, trying to start his dictation. It came slowly. He smoked three or four cigarettes, nervously. Told her to cross out what he had dictated and started all over again. Rubbed his forehead (?). Finally sat down and ran his hands through his hair. Seemed either sick, or a little bit drunk. At least sick. Got up and tried to dictate again, when they were interrupted by—

  8:45 (?) CUNNINGHAM AND TRUM

  (Shipley told Eileen to report the next morning, and she left.) Both Cunningham and Trum report same story: Cunningham (whose agency handles Trum’s cigarette account) pleaded with Shipley to do the type of drawings they wanted. Shipley agreed to do the ads if Trum wouldn’t insist on half nude girls. Shipley suggested studies of typical American Girl heads. Trum said that was old-fashioned, insisted on sexy dames to compete with Petty ads. Argued back and forth, but not too violently. Shipley’s heart didn’t seem in the fight. Seemed tired to both these gentlemen. Asked time to think it over. Trum promised more dough, if Shipley would do the job, and left, leaving Cunningham to try to sell Shipley the idea.

  (9: PLUS TRUM LEAVES) CUNNINGHAM CONTINUES:

  Cunningham continued to talk, but Shipley seemed distracted. Cunningham gave up at about 9:15, when—

  9:15 (?) NICKY ENGLISH

  knocked. (Nicky had returned at about 9, but heard Trum and Cunningham arguing with Shipley—went to library for a few moments. Returned at about 9:15.) Says Cunningham seemed angry as hell when he walked out of studio. Glared at Shipley on way out. Nicky once again tried to get that story. Once again interrupted, this time by—

  9:40 OLYMPE DEMING by (NICKY ENGLISH)

  Who came in and seemed ready to wait all night for Nicky to leave. Nicky stayed on until almost 10:30. They all talked small talk, Shipley trying hard to be sociable. Nicky gave up all hope of seeing Shipley alone, left the two together at about 10:30. Went upstairs to his room. (Might he have remained at keyhole, true to his trade? Check possibilities.)

  10:30 OLYMPE DEMING

  Olympe remained with Shipley to talk about the Illustrators’ Show. Wanted to find out which drawings Shipley wanted exhibited. Shipley didn’t seem at all interested in the show. She insisted canvases had to be ready by Tuesday in Radio City. Shipley said it could wait until tomorrow. Seemed anxious for her to leave, somehow. Complained of a headache. She asked him why he didn’t go to sleep. Answered that he had some work to do. Olympe left just before eleven.

  I threw down the notes.

  “Cozy as hell, Homer. That studio must have seemed like the Grand Central Station to Shipley las
t night. He was visited by every one of his guests.”

  “And yet,” said Homer, “with all those visits, there is a gap to fill. Olympe is positive that she looked at her watch at eleven o’clock, when she left Shipley alone in the studio. He died at eleven-thirty.”

  “You think one of ’em came back, during that half hour?”

  “Why only one? I can see many reasons for several of our characters returning to Shipley. Nicky English, for instance. Nicky may have wanted to plead for that story again. Cunningham might have returned to talk about the art work. Gavano for some reason of his own.” He sighed: “It’s all very confusing.”

  “You’re telling me?” I couldn’t see where the road led. “Homer, you’re a genius if you can twist this one into a murder.”

  Homer didn’t acknowledge my tease. He tilted the bottle of Suduiraut into a glass, sipped it and played with the second stack of notes. “Here’s some more hash to confuse us, Hank. I’ve boiled down most of my shorthand notes from the conference in the living room. Like to hear them?”

  I nodded. I can’t read shorthand.

  “We must begin with Eileen Tucker, and read from left to right around the room. I have a feeling that Eileen was dragged into this mess only because she happened to be taking notes on Shipley’s whacky book. There is nothing of any importance in her testimony, except the book business, which we will explore later. We’ll have to wait for her summary of the first chapter of the book, before we include her in.”

  “In what?” I objected. “This isn’t a murder case.”

  “Not yet,” said Homer. “Not yet.”

  The fog lifted as I gulped my wine. I couldn’t see Eileen a suspect in a suicide. Yet there was nothing illegal about the idea. Why had Homer left her hanging until the first chapter of Shipley’s book was redone from memory? It came to me suddenly that Homer might already suppose Shipley had been murdered. How? I couldn’t begin to imagine.

  “How about Nat Tucker?” I asked.

  “Nat is an interesting character … the sort of character a good writer can’t overlook. He was at home when Lester came for him. He dressed quickly while Lester waited, and then came up to the house.”

  I interrupted. “But before that, he flew through the air, dissolved through the studio walls in a grey mist, shot Shipley and then faded back outside?”

  Homer puckered a grin and rubbed his jowls. “Let’s not gag it up, Hank. If there’s been a murder it’ll be as simple as a cartoonist’s noggin.”

  I bowed. “I can’t wait.”

  Homer went on. “Next is Nevin. Nevin makes a fine figure of a hero for a Ladies’ Home Journal serial. He smells sweet and pure and tainted with the attar of Lifebuoy. We’ve got nothing on Nevin. Nevin says he came down as soon as he heard the shot. Or rather, he imagines he came down immediately. He was asleep, dressed; upstairs when the shot awakened him. We can allow a period of mental confusion, because a man awakened by a gunshot need not necessarily know what woke him, or would he? Probably not—by Nevin’s own admission. He reports he heard footsteps running down the hall. He jumped to the door, saw Grace running down the steps in her nightie—”

  “Lucky boy,” I said.

  “—and followed her into the studio.”

  “What about the skiing?”

  “Nothing. Nevin admitted he was skiing. Lester cleaned his skis, and Nevin walked into the library, where we met him. We can forget the skiing for a while. It doesn’t fit into any pattern.”

  “What does?” I moaned.

  “You can’t have a pattern without pieces. Let me finish throwing pieces at your intelligence. Next piece is Grace.”

  I gave him the grin he was waiting for. At least he was being realistic, adding Grace to the patter. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Time and again, Homer had proven himself feisty about crime. His fat frame was deceptive. There was nothing soft about Homer. Oh, sure—he was a softy—a kind, tender and lovable little guy, away from the smell of blood and the trail of mayhem. He was a good brother to his seven sisters. He sent flowers and telegrams on Mamma’s Day. He loved babies, kissed little girls, gave them pennies, and I have even caught him sobbing at a Shirley Temple tear jerker.

  “I suppose,” I said “that Grace was in the arms of—ah—Morpheus, when the shot was fired?”

  “Not exactly. No two alibis in this gay party.”

  “But didn’t Nevin report her running down the hall in her nightie? She must have come from her bedroom.”

  “You mean a bedroom, but that isn’t important now. Grace says she was in her own bedroom, and we’ll believe her for a while. She’s gone literary, Hank. The little lady was deep in the arms of Hemingway, helping him toll the bell, when the big noise came.”

  “Then, of course, she sprang into instant action?”

  “As instant as it can ever be for Grace. She leaped into her sheerest silk robe, probably grabbed for the mascara on the way to the door, and shook her plump self down to the studio door.”

  “She didn’t even stop to show Nevin her bedroom eyes?”

  “She saw nothing all the way down. Terrified, she says. All agog about the shot. But she did say that she heard a door slam from upstairs.”

  “Nevin’s?”

  “How could she know? I don’t see Nevin as the door-slamming type. We have our door slammer—we have two of ’em. Cunningham slammed, and so did Nicky English.” Homer paused for a long puff. “Anyhow, Lester crashed the door in when she reached the last step. When she arrived in the studio, she saw Olympe and Minnie Minton out cold and Lester gawking down at the corpse.”

  We were interrupted by Swink, who walked into the library with his last bite of food still rolling in his long jaw.

  “I got that information you wanted, Bull.”

  Homer gathered his notes and stuffed them into the fat folds of his jacket.

  “You asked them all?”

  “Yep. There was no light in the studio when the body was found. I have it from Lester, Minnie, Miss Deming, Miss Lawrence and Stanley Nevin. Nevin switched on the light after he arrived.”

  Homer was writing again.

  “That means Nicky English, Trum, Cunningham and Gavano walked into a lighted room?”

  “That’s the story.”

  Homer leaned on his elbow, doodling the napkin. He came awake suddenly.

  “Get Miss Deming for me, Swink.”

  “Now?” asked Swink, eyeing the wine.

  Homer showed him the door.

  “The plot thickens,” he said to the door, closing it gently.

  I dropped into a chair and massaged my scalp.

  “Oh, to be in Flatbush on a night like this.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Olympe’s Game

  “Olympe teases my imagination,” said Homer.

  “Is that all?”

  Swink led Olympe into the room, and we jerked ourselves out of dreamland. Homer put her at her ease with a glass of Suduiraut. She gave him an icy smile.

  “I’ve waited to see you alone,” Homer began. “There are a few questions I thought you might like to answer informally.”

  “How considerate of you,” she said evenly.

  Homer showed her his teeth in a smile.

  “Have you worked for Mr. Shipley long, Miss Deming?”

  She didn’t wait to think.

  “I’ve been up here for two weeks. Two weeks tonight.”

  “Did you know Mr. Shipley before you came?”

  “Casually.”

  “How did he happen to hire you?”

  “I was a model,” she answered quickly. “I worked in the Powers Agency—doing fashions. John Powers introduced me to Shipley and I took the job he offered.”

  I could almost read Homer’s mind as he scribbled. He was making a note about this last statement. If Olympe w
as really a model, Grace might have known her before the weekend party.

  “Then the pay must have been better than you earned free-lancing as a model?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” She paused, nettled. “But the future was brighter. There’s no future in modelling.”

  I knew Homer would mark this down as an obvious lie. There was plenty of future in modelling for a girl like Olympe. Was there a greater future for her than the possibility of Hollywood, or the stage, or an easy marriage into wealth?

  “What did you do for Shipley?” Homer asked the question without a smile. There was no hint of innuendo.

  “I was beginning to learn how to take care of his business matters. I expected to be his agent eventually.”

  “Do you type?”

  “I do not.” She raised her eyes and levelled them at him. “Nor do I do shorthand. Mr. Shipley knew these things. He thought them unnecessary.”

  Homer toyed with his pencil for a moment.

  “You didn’t pose for Shipley?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Then what were your duties?”

  “I had only begun to learn them. I managed the household details and attended to all matters of business—correspondence, and so on.”

  Homer didn’t seem anxious to make an issue of her private life with Shipley.

  “Tell me what happened last night, Miss Deming, from the time you last saw Shipley alive.”

  Her eyes brightened with the horror of memory. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands and stared at it.

  “I left Mr. Shipley at almost exactly eleven o’clock and walked into the library. I wanted a book to take upstairs with me, because I wasn’t very sleepy. I sat in the library, thumbing through several books of pictures. I must have been there for a half an hour. Then I heard the shot.”

  “You met nobody from the time you left the studio until you heard the gun go off?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Go on, Miss Deming.”

  “I ran into the hall and through the dining room. The studio door was locked.”