Death Paints the Picture

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Stay in back long?”

  “Few minutes, I’d say.”

  “Ah. Fine.” Homer seemed relieved. “Then somebody could have come out the front door or the terrace and reached this house while you were around the back?”

  Nat scratched his mustache. “It’s possible.”

  Homer turned to me. “Run up to the house and check on all the others, Hank! Don’t come back until you’re sure where they are.”

  I ran back to the house, slowing to a walk in the hall. There was the rustle of thumbed paper in the library. I poked my head in and saw Nevin flipping the pages of an art book.

  “Hello!” I chirped. “You seen Gavano around?”

  His head shot up. I had startled him.

  “Gavano? I wouldn’t know where he is, MacAndrew. I’ve been in here alone for some time.”

  Gavano was in the living room with Trum and Grace.

  “Hello, honey,” said Grace. “Busy? We were just about to start a bridge game.”

  “Why don’t you get Cunningham?” I asked. “He’s a fiend at the game.”

  “He won’t play,” said Trum. “Has a headache.”

  “Is he in his room? Maybe I can coax him into it.”

  “He’s been up there for two hours,” said Grace.

  I said: “I’ve got a swell bedside manner. Betcha I get him down.”

  I knocked on Cunningham’s door.

  “Come in,” he said woefully.

  He was on his back in bed, reading a book.

  “How’s your head, Cunningham?”

  He put his fingers to his lips. “You’re a lousy detective, MacAndrew, and I’m a liar. A good book never gives me a headache. But certain people—” He grinned and winked.

  Lester and Minnie were in the kitchen.

  “Why, if it ain’t Mr. MacAndrew,” she chirruped. “And lookin’ very hungry, too, isn’t he? You lookin’ for a snack, lad?”

  “You’re an angel, Minnie.” I chucked her under her bony chin. “But I’m not hungry, honest. You found Miss Deming yet, Lester?”

  He shook his head dumbly.

  “Have you seen her, Minnie?”

  “Not since after breakfast, I haven’t.”

  I mouthed a boiled egg from the salad bowl and left by way of the garage. Eileen was climbing out of her car when I arrived at the Tuckers’. I whisked her up the steps and through the door.

  Homer said: “They all up there, Hank?”

  I nodded.

  “Fine. Where’ve you been, Eileen?”

  “Down to town.”

  “You took Olympe Deming to Kingston?”

  She colored. “I thought it was a secret. She seemed desperate, Mr. Bull—told me she just had to get to New York this afternoon. Did I do wrong?”

  Homer kissed her on the brow. “Wrong? I should say not. You probably saved her life. You saw her on the train?”

  “I didn’t wait. She told me not to.”

  I opened the door for Swink, Bruck and a deputy. “What’s up, Bull?” Swink asked.

  “Plenty. But it’ll have to wait for just a little while. Why don’t you and Bruck go up to the place, gather our guest list in the studio and wait for me there? I don’t think we’ll need an inquest after all, Swink.”

  “Eh? Well, all right, if you say so. How long’ll you be down here?”

  “Not very long.”

  “Who bought the notes from you, Nat?”

  Tucker whirled, hitting his boot against the copper kettle on the floor.

  “Eh? What in tarnation you talkin’ about?”

  “Please, please,” Homer’s voice had an edge. “We haven’t time for theatrics, Nat. I know you took the notes from Eileen’s desk, and I’m not blaming you for trying to sell ’em.”

  “You knew all the time?” Nat slumped into the rocking chair. His hands trembled on the chair arms. “You won’t tell Eileen, will you? You can’t—”

  “I won’t tell a soul, Nat, I promise you. But I must know now who paid you for those notes. It was Nicky English, wasn’t it?”

  Nat’s eyes were wet and big. “He told me he’d never tell how he got ’em. I never thought English would—”

  “Nicky kept his promise, Nat. He didn’t tell me. Did he pay you much?”

  Nat lowered his head. “Paid me five thousand dollars. But I’ll give it back Mr. Bull. I’ll give it back.”

  “You’ll keep it, Nat. English didn’t expect a refund.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Nicky’s got plenty—”

  But Eileen came in with a tray of sandwiches and coffee to end my account of Nicky’s financial holdings. Somebody knocked on the door, and Homer jumped to his feet.

  It was the buck-toothed Western Union boy.

  “Here’s another wire just come through from Scarsdale when I left the office.”

  Homer ripped open the envelope, read the message and reached for his coat.

  “Let’s go, Hank!”

  The party in the studio seemed casual enough, except for the presence of Lester and Minnie, who stood in a corner eyeing the others nervously. On the big couch sat Grace Lawrence and Trum, between them a small tray with two highballs. Mike Gavano leaned against the mahogany desk, biting a toothpick and spitting small pieces of wood over his right shoulder. Cunningham and Nevin held down the two straight back chairs near the drawing table. Swink, Bruck and the deputy stood near the door.

  I took the seat behind the big desk and watched Homer lean his fat bottom against the top and grin around the room.

  “This is a strange climax for a weekend party,” he began. “Our host has already taken his leave in a rather—ah, abrupt fashion. Another of the guests has left the happy group, too. We found him hanging by his neck this morning—a suicide.”

  “English?” Gavano asked hoarsely.

  “English,” nodded Homer, smiling into Mike’s eyes. “The last man in the world you’d ever expect to kill himself, eh, Mike?”

  “Jeez!” said Mike.

  “But I’m telling my story backwards,” said Homer. “I should start from the beginning—from the time I knew that I, too, was included in the guest list. That was on Monday morning—yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t come up on Friday, when Shipley expected me. Perhaps all this trouble might have been avoided, had I been here. I’m sure I could have stopped this thing soon after I discovered why Shipley invited me, of all his most casual acquaintances, to such a party.

  “There were two reasons for his having me here, as I figure it. Either he was afraid, and wanted the protection of a friend addicted to amateur sleuthing, or else he simply asked me up so that he might enjoy the byplay between Mr. Trum, myself and my—ah—ex-wife, Grace Lawrence. I prefer to think that Shipley asked me up for the latter reason. I really don’t imagine he knew what was coming. Hugo was a simple soul, in many ways. This invitation to Homer Bull was his idea of a practical joke—a sideshow for his own amusement.”

  Trum squirmed in his seat. Grace studied the ice in her drink.

  “At any rate, I came,” smiled Homer. “And just in time for the aftermath of a suicide. I must confess that the suicide didn’t interest me at all, at first. I was more intrigued by the peculiar choice of guests, and the odd personnel of Shipley’s household. The first character to make me wonder was Olympe Deming. Why was she up here? She wasn’t a secretary, obviously. What was she doing in this place? Posing for Shipley, perhaps? I couldn’t begin to understand. I couldn’t understand why you were here, either, Mike.”

  Gavano leered. “I was ast up here.”

  “Of course you were, Mike. You told me that only yesterday—and I believed you. But I couldn’t quite see you as—ah—the logical guest for a party such as this. Not immediately, I couldn’t. By the same token, Trum, your mission, too, didn’t quite make sense. Nor
did Cunningham’s. Nor—” he studied the carpet— “did yours, Grace. These things puzzled me. I wondered about Nicky English—Shipley’s avowed enemy. I wondered about Lester Minton, and Minnie, too. Matter of fact, it was the incongruity among our cast of characters that inspired me to give thought to what might follow. Then I found out about the book Shipley had started, and things began to happen. Eileen redid the first chapter of the book from memory. MacAndrew and I were slugged in the studio. The transcribed chapter disappeared.

  “The book notes puzzled me. It became clear, almost immediately, that there were two parts to Shipley’s projected book. The first section was the dictated chapter, which Eileen was able to reconstruct very well. The second part of the book, then, became the mystery. Shipley had prepared a few dozen pages of notes, all in his own handwriting, and gave these to Eileen to be typed. Eileen never typed this section. As a matter of fact, she read very little of it. Thus, nobody knew what these handwritten notes contained.” He stared around the room with a thin smile. “My deduction was simple after that point, for it was obvious now that only one person, the thief, knew what the handwritten notes contained.

  “Thus, the broth began to thicken. Whoever hit me in the studio had unwittingly banged reason into my head. I knew now that somebody was afraid. Somebody feared that Eileen might have read the handwritten notes and included them in her transcription.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Swink. “You mean that the feller who stole the notes from the Tuckers might have been the man who slugged you in the studio?”

  “Why not? If the thief feared the divulgence of the handwritten section, he would be interested in knowing whether Eileen had read ’em, wouldn’t he?”

  “On the other hand,” said Bruck, “anybody else interested in the handwritten notes might have been the slugger.”

  “You’ve hit it on the nose, Bruck! If Shipley’s notes were scandalous, why shouldn’t some of the others who might be involved want to know where they stood? Any one of the guests could have slugged us.”

  Bruck interrupted. “Why should anybody be so all fired scared of Shipley’s notes? Was the first chapter so bad?”

  “Not at all, Bruck. The first chapter read like a True Confession story. But remember that our slugger didn’t know these things.”

  “Then he hadn’t read that first chapter?”

  “Who had? That chapter was dictated to Eileen. Only Shipley and Eileen knew its contents. But all knew that the Shipley book would be full of dirt. From then on, I began to look for motive. I reviewed the cast, with the help of an assistant in New York. From his information, anybody up here might have been the slugger in the studio. Nicky English had a very good reason for wanting the notes. Trum, too, was very much concerned. Cunningham might have—”

  “That’s a lie!” Cunningham snapped. “I never cared a rap about Shipley’s lousy book—and you know it, Bull!”

  “All I know is what I read in the papers,” said Homer softly. “But I’ll admit that your motive would be weak, Cunningham. After all, if you had done the job, it would have been in the line of business—you might have slugged us as a favor to Trum!”

  Trum was red with rage. “That’s preposterous, Bull! Are you insinuating that—”

  “Yes,” said Homer. “I’m insinuating that you might have given your assignment to Cunningham and Gavano! After all, Trum, you’ve admitted to me that you were hell-bent on getting that stuff before publication. You also admitted a little deal with Gavano.”

  “I called off Gavano! And I never told Cunningham to slug you, Bull. If he—”

  “Never mind the ‘ifs,’ Trum!” Cunningham spoke sharply. “I have an alibi. I was out in the snow at the time. Remember, Bull?”

  Homer nodded. “Your alibi is almost perfect, Cunningham, but it doesn’t quite leave you in the clear. You had plenty of time to do the job, run through the main hall, grab your coat, leave the house and enter by way of the garage.” Cunningham half rose in his seat, but Homer waved him down. “We’re wandering away from the main line. I’ll go back to my original statement. The man who slugged us in the studio was motivated by fear—a fear greater than any threat of blackmail.”

  There followed a breathtaking silence. Mike Gavano spat the remains of his toothpick away and drummed on the desk top. Grace Lawrence gazed worshipfully into Homer’s eyes, her buxom bosom heaving in three-quarter time. The circle of amazement included Swink.

  “Worse than blackmail? What could that be now, Bull?”

  “The person who struck us down in the studio was afraid of only one thing, Swink. There was a chance that the handwritten notes of Shipley’s book might brand him forever as a murderer!”

  “Eh? You mean Shipley knew this feller had killed a man?”

  “Not at all. I mean that the text of Shipley’s notes might have pointed to this person as the murderer of Hugo Shipley!”

  CHAPTER 22

  An End and Two Beginnings

  Homer drew the revolver from his pocket and faced his audience.

  “I asked Sheriff Swink for this gun so that I might save my comic strip from the usual detective story climax,” he said evenly. “I’m an excellent shot. I don’t want the murderer to escape. And if he leaps for this gun, I’ll blow his brains out without batting an eye.”

  Homer held the gun on his right knee, then raised it casually to point between Nevin’s eyes.

  “Here’s your man, Swink. I don’t think he’ll make a sudden break for freedom!”

  Homer was right, as usual. Nevin didn’t move, didn’t even look up.

  Swink stepped forward. “I oughta warn you, Nevin, that anything you say—”

  “I know, I know,” said Nevin slowly. “Mr. Bull is a fascinating story teller. I prefer to listen.”

  “Splendid!” said Homer. “He has the sort of personality that will fascinate the alienists.”

  Nevin smiled. “A good suggestion, Bull—I’ll remember that.”

  “It won’t save you, Nevin. You planned this murder calmly, with super-intelligent caution. But you made many mistakes.”

  “Did I?” (With a raised eyebrow.)

  “Far too many. You see, Swink, Nevin never intended to murder twice, but Nicky English forced his hand. And he might have killed a third time, if he had known that Olympe Deming saw him enter Nicky’s room shortly after midnight last night.”

  Nevin’s head shot up. “Who told you that, Bull?”

  “Olympe.”

  “Jeez! Who woulda thunk it!” murmured Mike Gavano.

  Nevin spoke to the handcuffs softly. “You might have guessed it, Gavano. After all, if you had, I would have made you a new customer for blackmail, what with Hugo dead.”

  “Whattaya mean, you lily-livered crud?”

  “Come, come, Mike,” soothed Homer. “You know Nevin’s right. Are you denying you were taking dirty money from Shipley?”

  “I don’t have to answer, Bull! You ain’t got no proof!”

  “I can get it for you—wholesale!”

  “Bright boy. How come you got so bright, Bull?”

  “I was born bright, Mike. Hugo began to write a book—didn’t you know? Didn’t you know to whom he dedicated it?”

  “Yeah. Sure. He dedicated it to F.D.R. How should I know how he dedicates his book?”

  “He dedicated it to you, Mike—his pal. For a while I thought that you were really the man who slugged us—that chapter certainly seemed to point your way. Shipley seemed fond of you.”

  “Hugo and me was pals.”

  “What did you ever do for him?”

  “We was kids together. That’s all.”

  “Very noble, Mike. A pity your nobility wasn’t real enough to have ruled out blackmail. I have an idea that Shipley shot a man once—long ago. I have an idea, too, that you saw him shoot.”

  “You’re nu
ts Bull!”

  “You’re exactly right, Bull,” said Nevin. “Hugo’s told me the story. Gavano protected him nobly, until he met Hugo and discovered that he was earning big money.”

  “He’s lyin’! He can’t prove nothin’!”

  “I could,” said Homer. “But I won’t bother. The important thing is that you were blackmailing Shipley—and collecting enough to quit your rackets in Brooklyn, marry, and settle down.”

  “Leave Tina outa this!”

  “So far as I’m concerned, you’re both out of it, Gavano. You worked your racket with Shipley very well indeed. I especially admire your system of self-protection—making doubly sure of your man by forcing him to accept your personal agent—Lester Minton.”

  “Aw, cut it out, Bull—Lester ain’t done nothin’!”

  There was a soprano squeal from Minnie.

  “Oh! I mighta known it! I mighta known that dirty dog was up to something with Lester!”

  “Lester is no danger,” said Homer.

  “Oh, I mighta known it!” Minnie held her head. “Now it’s jail. Now it’s trouble for me! I’ve been a respectable woman; I served—”

  “Lester is in no danger,” repeated Homer. “He was only a watchdog, after all.”

  “You don’t know, Mr. Bull—he’s no part of a dog, sir! He’s more an ape!”

  Homer nodded to the Deputy, who led Lester and Minnie out of the room. He went on:

  “Lester simply informed Mike of Shipley’s activities. Last week, for instance, he managed to see the invitations to the weekend party and forwarded the information to Mike. That was the reason for my phone calls, wasn’t it, Mike?”

  Gavano sucked his toothpick.

  “Mike was a little afraid that Shipley might hire a private detective to end the blackmail somehow. That started me up here. I dislike threats. Mike—and your henchmen don’t read the newspapers. They didn’t see the item about Shipley’s suicide, you know.”

  Swink interrupted, waved a hand impatiently.

  “Never mind, Gavano. How’d you guess Nevin murdered the man?”

  “That’s what intrigues me,” said Nevin. “There couldn’t have been many clues.”