Death Paints the Picture

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Ah, but you’re wrong, Nevin. You left many clues—important clues. My first look at the studio produced several. The most important, of course, was the information about the light. Everybody told me that there wasn’t a light on in the studio when the body was found. Isn’t that odd, Nevin?”

  “Odd? Why?”

  “After all, why should a man put out the lights before killing himself?”

  “It’s possible,” said Bruck.

  “True—but it isn’t normal, Bruck. And there were other clues. The easel was placed so that the light from the windows was useless. I examined the rug and found that it had been in that position for some time—there was a deep mark in the rug.”

  “He might have worked only at night, honey,” Grace suggested.

  “Yes, I know,” said Homer. “But the easel had never been moved—not in a long time. It was a suggestion, at any rate. Then, too, there was the business of the paint tubes. They were all hardened.”

  “Really?” said Nevin. “You are clever, Bull.”

  Homer bowed. “Thank you again. These clues pointed to the fact that Shipley might not have worked in his studio for a long time—not in this studio, at any rate.”

  “Of course!” I spouted. “All that old French paper!”

  “Stupid of me,” said Nevin. “But of course I hadn’t been up here in a long time.”

  “What’s all this got to do with the murder?” Swink massaged his scalp. “For the life of me, I don’t see how Nevin could have—”

  “Nor do I, yet,” said Nevin.

  “Nor did I—at first, Nevin,” said Homer. “But I couldn’t get that light business out of my mind. That was why I spent so much time in the dining room, staring at the spot where Shipley’s body lay. I figured that there was only one way by which Shipley could have been murdered. The door was locked from the inside. You took a long chance, Nevin. You decided to remain inside the room, kill Hugo, lock the door and then hide somewhere until the door was forced in. Isn’t that why you turned out the light, after you killed him?”

  Nevin nodded. “Exactly. I needed time to jump from behind the drapes—” he pointed to the south wall near the door— “look back into the dining room and then walk in behind the others.”

  “And it worked beautifully, Nevin. Lester broke the door in and ran to the body, followed by Minnie and Olympe Deming. You were about to jump out behind them when you heard somebody running through the dining room. You waited until Grace ran in, took another look and then followed Grace. Then you immediately lit the light, hoping in the confusion they might forget it had been out.”

  “I’ll be damned!” sang Grace. “Now I remember that I didn’t remember Nevin running behind me through the dining room.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Homer. “And you’d never have thought twice about it unless somebody made a point of reminding you.”

  “I had an alibi to cover that,” Nevin smiled wryly. “I might have said that I entered by way of the other hall.”

  “You might have, indeed, Nevin—but only after Nicky English died. Nicky English followed you into the room. If anybody at all saw you, it must have been Nicky!”

  “It was Nicky,” said Nevin.

  “I thought so, at the time. Nicky acted queerly. He seemed to be holding some information I needed. He wanted, he said, to ‘break the story’ through his own column. I imagine that Nicky saw Nevin step out from behind the drapes, but couldn’t be quite sure of his man. Nicky was somewhere in the dining room at the time. He saw only a shadow moving forward into the studio. That was the reason for the unlit lamp, eh, Nevin?”

  Nevin nodded.

  Swink asked: “Did you see English in the dining room, Nevin?”

  “Oh, yes, sheriff. But too late to return to my hiding place.”

  “So you decided to chance it—to wait to see how much Nicky really had seen. That was the reason for the second murder. You went to Nicky’s room early this morning and found him asleep. On his bed you found several pages of notes, all written by Nicky. They practically named you as Shipley’s murderer. There was only one way out, after that discovery—you strangled Nicky English.”

  “Not at all,” Nevin said. “I smothered him.”

  “There were a good many clues, in spite of your pains, Nevin. You hung your man haphazardly. He would have had to stand on his toes to hang himself at that height. But you got the notes Shipley wrote in his own hand?”

  “Burned them. My fears were stupid, Bull. I might have known that Hugo would never admit using a—a stooge!”

  “You didn’t care for Shipley?”

  “No, I didn’t like him—I hated him!”

  Homer chuckled. “I’ll have to give you a bit more fire, when I reproduce this in the comic strip, Nevin. I know a few of your reasons for killing Shipley. I discovered your background a while ago.”

  “I suppose you found my home in Scarsdale?”

  “Not immediately. I sent a friend to your office first. He observed a good many of Shipley’s signed illustrations on the walls.”

  “I’m a great admirer of my own art work, Bull.”

  “I knew that. I also knew that Shipley was a very sick man. That meant he was going blind. It also meant that he could no longer do any art work. That’s why he moved up here. I asked myself how Shipley could keep appearing in magazines, have an unused studio and yet do work. The answer was obvious—he was using a stooge.

  “You were in love with Olympe, weren’t you, Nevin?”

  Nevin didn’t say.

  “I think you were,” said Homer. “Olympe went out with you regularly when she worked for Powers. Probably posed for you, too. But she met Shipley and really fell in love with him. She begged him to tell you about it, you know. Even wrote him a letter asking him to explain it all to you. But Hugo never did tell you, did he?”

  No answer from Nevin.

  “So you decided to find out whether your suspicions were true. You missed Olympe. She had disappeared. You wanted her. You remembered, suddenly, that she had met Shipley. You decided to find out once and for all whether Olympe had come up here. You came up uninvited, on fire with jealousy. You watched the two of them, and it killed you to see how much she seemed to love him. So you planned to wait for him on Sunday night. It was a long wait. You walked into the studio almost immediately after dinner, hid behind the drapes, and watched the steady flow of traffic through Hugo’s room. Finally she came in. There must have been a love scene. You waited until Olympe had gone, stepped from hiding and killed him.”

  “I should have killed them both.”

  “I think Olympe felt that intuitively, Nevin. That’s why she went away from this place. I’ve an idea she saw you leaving Nicky’s.”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Nevin.

  “Olympe and I had a long talk this morning. She seemed upset—nervous about Nicky English. Did she know you’d killed Nicky?”

  Nevin shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “And Shipley?”

  “I told her about that.”

  “Up on the hill?”

  “You amaze me, Bull.”

  “And you me, Nevin. Had you intended to kill Olympe?”

  “Perhaps. Later, if she didn’t come with me.”

  “You’re clever, Nevin,” Homer went on. “I like especially your technique in robbery. I mean the way you managed to search Nicky’s room without involving yourself. You upset Lester’s room first, then searched Nicky’s, then returned to your own, to victimize yourself. Weren’t you surprised that Nicky didn’t follow you upstairs when you said you wanted your pipe?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re conceited. Nicky knew all along that you were rifling his room. He was giving you enough rope to hang yourself. If Nicky had spoken to me last night, he might be here now.”

&nb
sp; I clicked the suitcase shut and sprawled on the bed.

  “What I don’t get, Homer, is this. I can’t picture that guy Nevin slugging anybody. He doesn’t have guts enough, it seems to me.”

  “Guts? Those guys have plenty, in their own way.” Homer didn’t look up. “It was easy for him. He was behind the drapes when I walked in. He simply conked me before I switched on the lamp, searched me, jumped back behind the drapes when Lester came in, and repeated the job when you knelt over me.”

  “A stinking master-mind. But how did he know where I hid the notes in the library?”

  “That was a cinch, Hank. When we first met him, yesterday afternoon, do you remember the book you were reading? Nevin did—it was that yellow pornographic masterpiece. He must have known you’d favor that book over all the others, you lecher!”

  There was a knock on the door and Grace walked in.

  “Are you ready, honey?”

  “Ready and waiting, sugar!”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, closing my eyes. “MacAndrew is a sleuth. From the way you’re dressed I’d deduce that you’re about to take a trip. Where? Elementary, my dear Watson. Isn’t that the spark of madness gleaming in your big blue eyes, Homer?”

  “MacAndrew hit it on the nose,” cooed Grace.

  “And you’re to be best man,” said Homer. “Again.”

  “This is where I came in eight years ago, Homer. Nope. MacAndrew stays on up here. Blessings on you, my children.”

  I backed the car out of the garage and eased down the driveway.

  Eileen met me at her door.

  “You’re not leaving, Hank?”

  “MacAndrew is back,” I told her. “Back for fifteen thousand cups of coffee.”

  She didn’t understand, at first.

  But Eileen is plenty smart. I sold her the idea after ten minutes.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Homer Bull & Hank MacAndrews Mysteries

  CHAPTER 1

  Carbolic Acid Katie

  We were crossing the Piper lot when Homer saw the chubby girl sitting under a tree, a book in her lap and a Seven-Up bottle at her side. When Homer slowed and stopped his broad shadow fell across her.

  Without looking up, she said, “Go away; you bother me.”

  She had a deep voice, full of carbolic acid. Her face was, round, and deadpan.

  Homer squatted. “Katie Hinds,” he said.

  Her head came up with a jerk. Then her little mouth smiled. She leaned back on her fists and laughed. “I’ll be damned! Forgive me, Homer, for not recognizing the Buddha bulk of your shadow.”

  They shook hands. I shook hands. When Katie stopped smiling her whole face stopped. Her mouth was shaped for pouting. She had biggish black eyes, but the un-plucked brows were forever set in a hard line and only lifted for laughter. Maybe five years ago Katie had been really beautiful. Now the fat face was too small for the fatter frame. And that voice—

  “Ohmigawd! Homer! Don’t tell me the long tentacles of Hollywood have reached out and jerked you away from the pure, sweet air of Madison Avenue. Or is it only a visit?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The nags at Santa Anita? The fruity night life of Sunset Boulevard? Tell me you’re a tourist, Homer, come to gape at the breastworks of the movie industry.”

  Homer shook his head and smiled.

  “Then it is Piper?” she said.

  “It’s Piper, all right. They brought me out here.”

  Katie threw back her head and groaned. “Please. I know. You got a letter from the main clam. Quote: Your reputation was brought to my attention. You are the type of genius Hollywood needs. Piper studios are always looking for such rare talent. They want you; they need you. Come out. Piper Studios will pay your fare. Piper Studios will wait until you’ve learned the business. It will be lovely. It will be divine. Unquote.”

  I laughed. Homer smiled. Katie blew her nose.

  Homer said, “You’ve been here for a long time, Katie. Jim Marshall up at the Clarke Agency told me you were here.”

  “Good old Jim,” she said bitterly. “He still writes me every Michaelmas. Wants me to come back.”

  “So he told me. They miss your fine hand in the copy department, Katie. Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”

  “Who said I don’t like it?” Katie was sharp. “I’m happy.”

  “Obviously,” said Homer.

  “You don’t believe me? Look at me.” She spread her arms. “What more could I ask? I’m a stockholder in whimsy land. I have my jug of Seven-Up, my book of swill, and my tree … Nobody bothers me. I sit here by the hour reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales while my brain ferrets new routines for Benny the Bear.”

  “You’re doing gags for Benny?”

  “No gags, Homer. Stories. I am a story lady. I am unique. In no other animation studio has there ever been a female story man. Never, before Dick Piper met poor little me, has a wench stepped into the murky depths of a cartoon studio story conference. I should feel proud. I am the great Kate Hinds. I should— But I am sick in the belly.” She struggled to her feet. “And I am wasting your time, to boot. Lloyd Griffin’s office is over that way. You are seeing Lloyd first, aren’t you?”

  She walked with us as far as the main building.

  “Stop by my cubbyhole soon, both of you. I have soft chairs, hot and cold running continuities, a good fan and plenty of the light brown stuff.”

  “I never refuse a lady.” said Homer.

  Katie grunted, turned away suddenly and crossed the lawn toward the main gate.

  So this was Kate Hinds, the Kate Hinds I had heard about in New York. This was the little slip of a girl (five years ago) who had startled the big city with her clever verses, her inspired advertising copy, her Dorothy Parkerish wit. Well, five years is a long time.

  That was before she met Mark Richmond. Mark at that time was scouting talent for the Piper Studios He lured cartoonists, humorists, technical men and even versifiers. He took Katie to Hollywood at a better price than the agencies could offer.

  Nobody understood why Katie left New York. For a while gossip had it that Mark Richmond and she were planning marriage. The agency boys pulled their long noses and told the world that it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last! Katie was smart. Too smart for Hollywood and the goose-grease hair-do of Mark Richmond. They were right about Richmond. Katie and Mark didn’t last long in the theatrical columns. The fluff and romance died in less than a year after she went to the cinema city.

  Remember the yarn? Winchell broke it first—a juicy story about a pub brawl somewhere on Sunset Boulevard. Mark Richmond, ever on the alert for new talent for the Piper furnaces, discovered a sculptress in the Hollywood hills. He lured her to level ground by easy stages. She was previewed at the Brown Derby, finally, all dressed up in a one-piece evening gown geared to the flesh. Katie spotted her with Richmond, sipping gin in a dark corner. When the dust settled, Mark was helped to his feet by grinning spectators. Katie had closed his eyes with a potted plant.

  Thereafter, Mark Richmond was kept within the studio gates, close to Dick Piper. After all, they were old friends. In the lean days, when the Piper name meant little to exhibitors, Mark had imported the slave labor, the hundreds of anemic young “in-betweeners” who are the life-blood of cartoon flickers …

  Lloyd Griffin’s reception room was simple. A desk with a blonde. Pine-paneled walls. A huge window. Many pictures of Benny the Bear, culled from the shorts the little beast had blessed with his drawing-board personality.

  The blonde led us through a door marked: Lloyd.

  “Lloyd is busy on the new feature,” she lisped. “I’m sure he’d want you to wait in his office, Homer.”

  A short, rattish-looking gent, sporting a multi-colored neckerchief and an English pipe, entered.

  “This is Sugarf
oot,” said Daisy.

  “Delighted. Charmed,” said Sugarfoot, bowing from the waist.

  “Delighted,” said Homer.

  “Charmed,” I put in.

  “Sigarfoos is the name, really. Ed Sigarfoos. I’d rather you called me Ed, you know. Dick branded me with that Sugarfoot moniker long ago.”

  “Well, then, if it’s good enough for Dick,” said Homer, “it’s good enough for me, Sugarfoot.”

  Sugarfoot fiddled with his pipe and then faced me. “Well,” he said. “Well. You’re the man who created Dr. Ohm, now aren’t you?”

  “I draw it. Homer created it.”

  “So? Well. A thrilling comic strip, Homer. Intriguing. How in the world does one go about getting such ideas? I mean, it’s so different. Puts Superman to shame. Of course, Superman might have suggested things, I suppose, at that. It was the first comic—”

  “No,” said Homer. “Second. Dr. Ohm was first.”

  “Oh yes. So it was. I remember now, of course.”

  “Have you any idea where Griffin is?” Homer asked.

  “Lloyd? Oh my! I’d almost forgotten. He’s waiting in the conference room. Well, now. Well. Imagine me forgetting!”

  I didn’t like Sugarfoot. I didn’t like his face, his neckerchief, his toothpick moustache, or the way he parted his hair. The way he walked down the corridor ahead of us annoyed me.

  Lloyd Griffin cut our trip short. He met us halfway.

  “There you are, Sugarfoot,” he scowled. “What in the devil were you talking about all this time? Hello, Homer. Hello, Hank.”

  Sugarfoot ducked into a convenient doorway. Griffin led us back to his office.

  Behind his desk, Lloyd looked the typical Hollywood dream-boy executive. He had on a pair of pearl gray slacks, neatly pleated around the waist. An ornate gold bracelet decorated his hairy right wrist. He spoke smoothly, grimacing for effect. He opened his mouth wide when he smiled. Debonair. His face was an Indian brown, sunlamp brown, and handsome as hell.

  “You’ll like it here,” he was saying. “Dick goes to great lengths to get new talent for this outfit. When Fleischer announced that he was filming Superman, we knew that there were only two comic strip men in the country who could concoct a box-office rival. Your Dr. Ohm is a great comic strip, Homer. In many ways it’s better than Superman, you know, for movie development. Which one of you conceived the little man?”