“Mariposa’s teaching him Spanish though I don’t know why she bothers. It looks to me as if they conduct most of their conversations in sign language.” Sarah laughed and blushed. “I must have spent a little too long with Countess Ouspenska. Getting back to her finances, Mr. Bittersohn, did you know she supports herself these days by manufacturing antique icons?”
“Are they any good?”
“As good as they can be, I should say. She showed me one that was almost finished and I’ll bet even you would be hard put to tell the difference between the copy and the original.”
“Where did she get the icon she copies from?”
“She owns about a dozen different ones. I couldn’t tell whether they were all genuine, of course, but they looked awfully good to me. She said, she’d never part with them because they’re what keep her from starving in the gutter. But what struck me most was that if she’s such a clever forger—”
“Yes, one might wonder, mightn’t one? You’re thinking about that Romney, I expect, and maybe a few dozen other things. That wouldn’t explain Brown and Witherspoon, though, would it? I can’t see Lydia ever bumping off a man.”
“She’d kill them with kindness, I suppose.”
“Why, Mrs. Kelling! For a nice little girl from Beacon Hill you’re getting awfully free in your talk all of a sudden.”
“It must be the dissolute company I’m keeping. Would you like me to visit Countess Ouspenska again and pump her about the Madam’s?”
“No, I want you to stay away from her and also from the palazzo. I’m putting another of my secret agents on the case tomorrow.”
“How impressive. Who is he?”
“He prefers to be called Bill Jones. Bill knows every hot painting that’s been peddled in and out of Boston for the past thirty years.”
“Does he steal them himself, or what?”
“No, he just likes to keep track. One might call it a hobby. Bill’s a highly successful commercial artist, as a matter of fact. You’d probably enjoy meeting him.”
“Then why don’t you bring him to dinner?”
“Maybe I will. What’s up now, Charlie? I thought you’d retired to your quarters.”
The butler, who had manifested himself in the doorway, stiffened to attention. “Mr. Brooks Kelling has arrived. He wished to be announced.”
“Did Mrs. Tawne come with him?” Sarah asked with a sinking feeling.
“No, madam. He is in the library with Mrs. Sorpende.”
“Why, the little dickens! Give him another few minutes’ billing and cooing time while Mr. Bittersohn finishes his supper, then show him up to the studio. Was that what you wanted me to say, Mr. Bittersohn?”
“Precisely that.” He gobbled the last few bites of food. “Shall we dance?”
As they went up the back stairs it occurred to Sarah to wonder if her other boarders were aware how much time Mr. Bittersohn had been spending in that upstairs sitting room lately, and how the soi-disant Countess Ouspenska had got the notion she and he were carrying on what might delicately be described as a close relationship.
Jennifer LaValliere and Eugene Porter-Smith went about together a good deal. Had one of them happened to drop a remark down at one of the coffee houses they frequented that somehow got passed on to her? Or was Sarah getting herself gossiped about more than she realized by appearing in public so often these days with Mr. Bittersohn?
But how could anybody who knew Sarah Kelling also know Lydia Ouspenska? Mr. Palmerston did, for one, but he was barely on speaking terms with Sarah and whatever liaison he’d had with the countess had obviously been over long ago. Dolores Tawne would have had to jump to some awfully swift conclusions since she’d met the pair for the first time Sunday night in what could hardly be called a compromising situation.
Nick Fieringer did. And Nick had been sitting here with them both last night making suggestive remarks about beautiful ladies, and there was no denying the fact that it was a cozy, intimate sort of place and that Sarah’s own bedroom happened to be on the other side of a connecting door and perhaps that door hadn’t been quite shut. And Nick was supposed to be an old boyfriend of Lydia’s. But Nick was old in years, too, and he’d said he had to audition a tuba player at the crack of dawn. Surely he wouldn’t have gone dashing over to Ipswich Street last night to inform the countess that Max Bittersohn, with whom she was evidently acquainted mainly by wishful thinking, might or might not be having a little something on with the widow Kelling whom Lydia had met only that same afternoon.
Of course Nick might have seen Lydia sometime today. And today Brown the guard had died from drinking paint remover, as surely no sane man would do of his own free will. And Lydia Ouspenska was an artist. And paint remover was the sort of thing an artist might think of. And she was also a superb copyist. And what had Brooks found out to bring him tearing over here again tonight?
Maybe it wasn’t anything so very urgent at that. Brooks was in no hurry to leave Mrs. Sorpende. Sarah and the magnificent Max had plenty of time to settle themselves in the two bergères and sit until the silence became awkward.
At last Bittersohn remarked, “I like this room.”
“It’s rather small.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s so pleasant.”
He did have a sensitive, curving mouth for a man whose other features had at first looked so rugged in contrast to her late husband’s. She tried to picture Alexander’s face and found to her secret horror that she could remember him best as a pair of long legs in impeccable gray flannel, taking a little girl to feed the ducks in the Public Gardens. Yet she’d loved Alexander with all her heart. Well, of course not entirely all. She’d loved her parents, she supposed, and she loved Aunt Emma and dear old Anora Protheroe and Uncle Jem and maybe his faithful henchman Egbert a little and she was getting extremely fond of Cousin Mary and even, after all these years, of Cousin Dolph. There had to be many different kinds of loving, and hearts couldn’t very well be amenable to quantitative analysis. And what on earth was keeping Brooks?
He came curvetting in at last, sleek and lithe as an elderly chipmunk. “Good evening, children.”
“Hi, Kelling,” said Bittersohn. “Found any more bodies?”
“Not yet, but point me in the right direction and I’ll be glad to go hunting. I came for my instructions.”
“Nice of you. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of finding the bottle Brown really drank out of?”
“Naturally I conducted a thorough search of the premises and it’s nowhere to be found. That in itself is a telling point, don’t you think? I daresay it was tossed out somewhere in the Fens. Another broken whiskey bottle over there would hardly be noticed. I’ve written to the Christian Science Monitor about littering more than once.”
“And scholarly epistles they were, no doubt. Why else do you think Brown was murdered?”
“I knew the man, if one could dignify him by that name. Brown was a slug. Slugs don’t go around committing painful and melodramatic suicides but they can easily be tricked into swallowing poisoned bait.”
“Any idea who laid the bait?”
“If I had, I’d be with Lieutenant Davies instead of you. Ratting, I believe it’s called.”
“On one of your colleagues at the museum?”
“I think a guard would be a viable hypothesis. The murderer must have known, to begin with, that Brown kept a fifth in his locker. He’d have to be able to gain access to the locker room without making himself conspicuous. That in itself mightn’t be difficult since our only bathroom is next to the locker room and he could always pretend to be visiting the facilities. However”—Cousin Brooks paused impressively—“he’d also have to know which bottle belonged to Brown.
“Good point. He’d also have to know when it was safe to sneak back and switch the whiskey for the paint remover, and plant the note in Brown’s pocket. Any idea where the paint remover came from, by the way?”
“Yes, it was mine. I repair some of the frames,
as Dolores may have mentioned, and do other small jobs of that sort. I prefer the liquid paint remover to the viscous kind because the work is often delicate and I find it easier to control. The bottle was simply taken off my workbench, which is also in the basement, of course.”
“Is that supposed to mean somebody’s trying to frame the framer?”
“Oh, I hardly think so. That would be a bit too obvious, wouldn’t it? I should be happy to know, though, that somebody isn’t trying to kill me. That’s why I felt I’d be well advised to have this little chat with you, sir. The police are showing an inclination to write Brown’s death off as suicide. I don’t want to be written off along with Brown.”
“Have you any special reason to think you might be?”
“Only that ignorance is always dangerous. Since I don’t know why Witherspoon and Brown were killed, I have no idea whether or not my having been in the palazzo on both occasions may constitute a threat to the murderer.”
“Cousin Brooks,” cried Sarah, “you must give up that job this instant.”
“What for?”
“Because I’d feel perfectly awful if anything happened to you.”
“Out of respect for your sensibilities, then, I shall try to keep from being bumped off. Or is it rubbed out? As to the job, I don’t think it’s quite the done thing to walk out at a time like this. I’m sure Bittersohn understands my feeling. Speaking of walking, do you think it would be in order for me to ask Mrs. Sorpende out for a little stroll some evening soon? I thought she might care to observe the nighthawks.”
“All right, Brooks, be a hero if you must. As to the nighthawks, Mrs. Sorpende loves to walk and I’m sure she’d be enraptured.”
“And as to the museum,” said Bittersohn, “just hang in there till we see what develops. I’m sending somebody over to have a look tomorrow. Keep me posted, and don’t leave anything eatable or drinkable in your locker.”
Chapter 8
THE NEXT NIGHT MR. Bittersohn brought a guest back to dinner. The guest was not dressed for the occasion. In fact he was hardly dressed at all. In addition to the filthy poplin raincoat he shed on arriving, he wore a nondescript sports shirt, shrunken chino pants, and a pair of run-down loafers. Tie, socks, and undershirt were blatantly absent. His face, on the other hand, was modestly veiled in a three days’ growth of blue-black whiskers. He was short, thin, and swarthy. His manners were polished as a duke’s, and he talked volubly throughout the meal in a confidential murmur, leaning far over the table and waving a fork or a bit of bread in an exquisite little hand. Sarah’s boarders, especially Jennifer LaValliere, found him entrancing.
So this was Bill Jones, the hot painting expert. Sarah wondered how soon Bill would approach her with a nice bargain in Vuillards. After the ritual half hour for coffee in the library she went up to her sitting room, rather expecting that Bittersohn and his secret agent would soon follow. They did not. She’d just about decided that they’d gone downstairs to Bittersohn’s room or that Jones had eloped with Miss LaValliere when they appeared, Bittersohn beckoning mysteriously as he eased the door open, Jones sliding along the walls and slipping noiselessly into the room. Sarah waited breathless for one of them to produce the Maltese Falcon.
Bill Jones, however, merely selected the seat farthest from the light, melted into the upholstery, and murmured almost inaudibly, “You called it, pal.”
Bittersohn nodded. “What’s your count?”
“I make it fifty-seven. Most professional job I ever saw.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who’s involved.”
Bill shook his head. “Nobody I know.”
“Bill, old buddy, this is Max you’re talking to, remember?”
“Pal, I’m leveling. I don’t know.”
“But, Jesus, Bill, don’t you even have a clue?”
Jones shook his curly black locks. “I even”—he waggled his dainty hands and looked from under his lids as if he were about to utter an impropriety—“like, you know, asked around. All I can tell you is it’s a beautiful job. Clams by the bucket, man!”
Sarah could bear it no longer. “Would you two please tell me precisely what you’re talking about?”
Both men looked at her as if she were somewhat feebleminded. “Bill was explaining,” said Bittersohn, “that he has personal knowledge of fifty-seven originals from the Madam’s that have been sold out of Boston, that he hasn’t the faintest idea who stole them, and that the proceeds from the sales must have run into many millions of dollars unless the thief is an idiot, which doesn’t seem possible. Where did the paintings go, Bill?”
“Around. You know.”
“Any to New York?”
“No, too close. The guy’s an artist,” said Jones with due respect.
“Speaking of artists, who does the copies?”
Bill shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s all one guy.”
“You sure of that?”
Bill shrugged again.
“Sorry,” Bittersohn apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“But how could one person do so many?” cried Sarah. “I met someone who does that sort of thing and she says it takes ages because one has to be so careful about the details.”
“Practically a life work,” Bill agreed, “but it’s been going on for a long time. That little Giotto hanging to the right of the fireplace in the music room was fenced on October first, 1959, through a sporting goods dealer named Mickey Brannigan down in the old neighborhood.”
“Sporting goods dealer means a person who buys and sells stolen goods, Mrs. Kelling,” Bittersohn explained before she could embarrass him by asking. “Mickey’s dead now, I suppose.”
“Su-ure. Long ago.”
Otherwise Bill wouldn’t have ratted, Sarah thought. She wondered what Brannigan had died of but thought she’d better not ask.
“How many of the Madam’s paintings did Brannigan fence?” said Bittersohn.
“Just the one. Mickey wasn’t an art man. He handled like general merchandise. I can’t find anybody who’s handled more than one or two.”
“Then who makes the contacts? That’s a hell of a job, Bill.”
“You’re telling me, Maxie? I wish I knew. I’d like to shake his hand. Or hers.”
“You sure it’s not theirs?”
“Look, pal, this little caper’s been going on for a lot of years and there hasn’t been a leak yet. Like they say, two people can keep a secret if one of them’s dead, right?”
Bittersohn nodded. “Fifty-seven fakes, eh?”
“I’d say a lot more than fifty-seven, but that’s your department. The Madam probably got stuck with a bunch of old ones in the first place. Fifty-seven originals fenced within the past thirty years and fifty-seven copies all from the same hand hanging in the palazzo now. That’s all I can tell you for sure, Max. Well, I’ve got to blow. Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Kelling. Nice to have met you.” He managed to convey a subtle impression that the meeting had been a great deal more than nice. “If I find out any more, Maxie, I’ll be in touch.”
“Do that. See you, Bill.”
“Su-ure.” Their guest slunk off down the back stairs, keeping in the shadows.
“I suppose he’s on his way to some den of vice,” Sarah observed rather wistfully.
Bittersohn shook his head. “As a matter of fact, he’s going to a poetry reading at Wheelock College. How would you like to invite C. Edwald Palmerston to tea and crumpets or something?”
“You can’t be serious! You have no idea what he’s like.”
“That’s why I think it might be nice to get acquainted.”
“Nice is not the operative word. If you’d said helpful or productive—”
“Okay, helpful or productive, so how about it?”
“If I must, but I’m not having him here without someone to back me up. Would Wednesday be good for you? That’s Mrs. Sorpende’s afternoon off.”
Bittersohn raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Sorpende’s
getting awfully indispensable around here all of a sudden. You wouldn’t have been cutting her rent by any chance?”
“How clever of you! But she’s such a darling and she’s led such a rotten life and she makes so little at that tea shop and she does love it here. And if I let her go, Professor Ormsby would probably leave, too.”
“Ormsby will be leaving in any case. He’s a visiting professor, his year at MIT will be up in May, and he’s got a wife and five kids in Michigan.”
“Good heavens! Should I drop a hint to Mrs. Sorpende, do you think.”
“If she doesn’t already know, she’d better get out of the tea leaf business. Don’t worry, Mrs. Sorpende’s been taking care of herself a lot longer than you have. He hasn’t been having an affair with her or anything, has he?”
“Not around here he hasn’t. As far as I know he just sits and stares.”
“Can’t hang a man for that, can you? So you’ll fix it up with Palmerston for Wednesday afternoon, right?”
“Will you promise faithfully to be here if he comes?”
“That’s the object of the exercise. Not to put too fine a point on it, I want to shock him into hiring me to find out who’s been pinching all the Madam’s paintings. Then I’ll also have a good excuse to keep an eye on your cousin Brooks.”
“Oh, then of course I’ll call him this minute.”
Sarah had at last consented to Bittersohn’s repeated urgings that she have an extension phone in her own room. She called from there and received such a fulsome response that she began to wonder if Lydia Ouspenska had, after all, known whereof she spoke regarding Palmerston and women. Bittersohn then went off on one of his mysterious bits of business and Sarah went downstairs to see if Mrs. Sorpende was still in the library and amenable to helping her entertain Brooks’s new boss.
“I shall be delighted to do anything I can to further Mr. Brooks Kelling’s career,” the lady replied graciously. “He is a most knowledgeable man and a delightful conversationalist. His observations on the water ouzel and the ruby-crowned kinglet were highly educational, didn’t you think? Perhaps you might allow me to make the sandwiches for tea? I do have professional experience in that line, you know, and I did so enjoy my little adventure in the kitchen on Sunday.”
The Palace Guard Page 6
