The Palace Guard

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Damn! I shouldn’t have put the car away.”

  “We can’t go at this hour,” Sarah protested. “They won’t let us in.”

  “Yes they will. I did the director a favor once.”

  “You and your connections! All right, Charles, call us a cab.”

  “You do not intend to visit the Massachusetts General Hospital in those clothes, madam?” the butler said frostily.

  “Why not?”

  “You and Mr. Bittersohn both look, if I may take the liberty of saying so, as if you’ve been crawling around a coalbin.”

  “Come to think of it, we have. Five minutes, then.”

  A quick wash and change revived them both somewhat. A quarter of an hour later, hollow-eyed but presentable, they were getting a cool reception from a night nurse and being led into the private room Bittersohn had wangled for Countess Ouspenska.

  Lydia looked ghastly. Gray skin was stretched so tight over her high cheekbones that it seemed about to split open from the strain. Her eyes were deep black pits and her mouth a slate blue gash. Still she tried to smile. “The beautiful ones,” she whispered. “I am some party-pooper, not?”

  Sarah kissed the ashen cheeks and took the ice-cold hands in her own. “We’re so terribly grateful that you’re—” She checked herself. If Lydia didn’t realize how close to death she’d been, this was hardly the time to tell her. “We’ll have another party as soon as you’re well enough to come.”

  “Is good. I be there with bells on.”

  “Sure you will, Lydia,” said Bittersohn, self-conscious as men often are in sickrooms. He pulled up a chair and pushed Sarah gently into it. “Have they told you what happened?”

  ‘They say, how come I do such crazy thing? What crazy thing I do, Max?”

  “They think you fed yourself a mixture of arsenic and Nembutal playing Russian roulette with your stomach capsules.”

  “But not! Never I do such a thing. That was for leg-pull to make sputter the good Dolores. Does she say I take poison?”

  “She said you told her you were going to.”

  “Is like Dolores to believe when I joke. No imagination. Must be hell to be artist with no imagination.” Lydia was obviously still very sick. Showing no curiosity about her own dreadful experience, she rambled on.

  “Ever since I know Dolores is many years now she works, always she works. When not at Madam’s dusting ugly china is painting in studio with door locked nobody should breathe on masterpieces. I say, ‘Show me what great thing you create always painting, painting. She show me still life with dead bird. Not even live bird to whistle while she work. Is always still life never finished. I tease about it only yesterday. Is yesterday? I forget when I—” Her voice faded and the nurse made them leave the room.

  “She’s right about that painting,” Sarah remarked. “Dolores had it on the easel the day I went there for tea. Max, do you suppose—?”

  “Let’s go.” Bittersohn overawed the nurse with some precise and frightening instructions, then dragged Sarah to the elevators.

  “How could I have been such an idiot?” Sarah wailed. “It’s been sticking out all over the place. Dolores is an expert copyist. She showed me photographs of some portraits that she’d copied from other photographs and you could hardly tell which was which. And she had every opportunity to get the paintings in and out of the museum. She’d need only say she was taking the original to her studio for revarnishing or whatever, then return the copy instead.”

  “I thought of her first off the bat,” said Bittersohn shamefacedly, “but she was so damned obvious I couldn’t believe it was that easy. Besides, those thick ankles sort of throw you off.”

  “I know. She’s the salt of the earth. Is this the lobby? Max, do you see what I see?”

  A trim little man with slicked-down gray hair was sitting near the main entrance.

  “Hello, brighteyes,” said Max.

  “Good morning, children,” Cousin Brooks replied. “I called your private number, Bittersohn, to tell you Lupe and Bengo had been safely jugged, and Charles answered. He said you were over here, so I came along. I was just down around the corner at the jail anyway. How’s Lydia?”

  “Groggy but recovering. So you got the lads tucked-in for the night.”

  “Unless Lupe has managed to talk his way out by now, which wouldn’t surprise me. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “We were about to pay a call on Dolores Tawne. Incidentally, Kelling, I hope you’re not—er—”

  “Emotionally involved with her? Not in the least. As a matter of fact”—Cousin Brooks smirked tenderly into the night as they emerged in quest of yet another cab—“I’ve come to the conclusion that my affections are engaged elsewhere. Like the Canada goose I’m monogamous by nature. I’ve avoided entanglements until such time as I felt ready to mate for life. But now I’m all set to be netted and banded.”

  “Congratulations. When does the nesting season begin?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t broached the subject to Theonia yet.”

  “Don’t you think she should be among the first to know?” said Sarah.

  “Dash it, I’m going to pop the question as soon as I get a chance to do it properly. I can’t just pounce on her like a hawk on a chicken.”

  “Why not? She’d love being swept off her feet.”

  “Too bad there aren’t more like her,” said Bittersohn, sweeping Sarah off her feet and into the taxi that stopped for them. “Has it ever crossed your mind, Kelling, that Dolores Tawne may be responsible for all those fakes at the Madam’s?”

  “Dolores? Are you serious? She couldn’t—but she could, couldn’t she? That opens up a rather startling train of thought. If she is, I must be an accessory either before or after the fact. I must have copied at least thirty of the Wilkins’s frames for her. She always claims she wants them to put on portraits she’s painted.”

  “Have you seen any of the portraits?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. She never offers and I never ask. The only work of hers I’ve ever seen was an unfinished still life she was working on I don’t know how many years ago. It has a stuffed pheasant in it that was as ridiculously incompetent a job of taxidermy as it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter. I pointed out its defects and she got into a snit. I’ve always assumed that’s why she hasn’t shown me any more.”

  “Would you testify in court to her having asked you to copy the frames?”

  “I hope I know my civic duty, Bittersohn. Drat! This reminds me of the first time I ever saw a scarlet tanager in molt. One would have sworn that all of a sudden it belonged to a different subspecies.” Brooks shook his neat head sadly and didn’t speak again until they’d reached their now familiar destination at Ipswich Street.

  For the second night in a row they were treated to the sight of Mrs. Tawne in her plissé robe and metal curlers. She was even more annoyed this time.

  “Oh, it’s you, Brooks,” she sniffed. “I must say I thought you knew enough to show consideration for others even if your fine young lady cousin and her paramour don’t. What is it this time?”

  “We came to congratulate you,” said the paramour, “on the magnificent job you’ve done copying all those paintings at the Wilkins Museum.”

  Bittersohn expected a reaction but not the one he got. Dolores almost kissed him.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Bittersohn! I must say that’s sweet music to my ears coming from a man of your professional reputation. I’m sorry I was a bit short with you just now. I had no idea—but come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on. It won’t take a second.”

  And off she rushed, leaving the art expert agape on the doorstep. Sarah gave him a poke. “Go on, you idiot!” She herself led the way down from the balcony, making polite tea party noises. The men sat on the edges of chairs and looked stunned while Dolores did things in the kitchen.

  In a few minutes she was back loaded with food and apologizing for the meagerness of the entertainment. “If I’d known
you were coming I’d have had something on hand. Do try the chocolate marshmallow coconut fluffs, Mr. Bittersohn.”

  Max blenched and helped himself to a plain cracker. “Thanks, I’ll start with this,” he muttered.

  “We know we shouldn’t have barged in on you so late,” Sarah gushed, “but we’ve been at the hospital with Countess Ouspenska. She’s coming along nicely and we thought you’d want to know.”

  Dolores merely inclined her curlers and smiled vaguely. “That’s good. Now, about my paintings, Mr. Bittersohn. You don’t know what it means to me to be complimented by a truly discerning person. If I say so myself,” she did say so herself, pausing only to refill cups and press more goodies on her stupefied audience. The amount of technical data she reeled off was amazing. It became evident that Dolores was an authority on the duplication of old masters, that she was immensely proud of her ability, and that she saw nothing improper in what she’d done. All she regretted was the need for anonymity.

  “An artist does appreciate recognition,” she sighed. “So many times I’ve stood there listening to visitors rave over my work and fairly had to bite my tongue to keep from letting them know they weren’t looking at a Rubens or a Rembrandt but a Dolores Agnew Tawne. Ah well, it isn’t every painter who gets mistaken for Rembrandt.” She chuckled and helped herself to another chocolate marshmallow coconut fluff.

  “You needn’t worry about the lack of recognition,” said Bittersohn. “I predict that before long this place will be full of television cameras and your name will be in every newspaper in the country.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something!” Their hostess gazed dreamily over the top of her cookie. “But I’m afraid it won’t happen till I’m long past caring. Absolute secrecy is our watchword, as of course you know.”

  “Yes, we’ve had that forcibly impressed upon us.”

  “I must say I’m surprised he told you three, though of course I knew he’d been in contact with you. I suppose he was more or less forced to reveal all on account of Witherspoon and Brown. That was an odd coincidence, I must admit. I’d never have thought Brown was so devoted to poor old Joe, but who knows what secrets lurk in the hearts of men, as the Shadow used to say. I’ve been on pins and needles ever since Sunday. We’ve always been worried for fear something would happen that might lead to somebody’s questioning the authenticity of the copies, not that there’s much likelihood, if I do say so myself. Still, as he’s often said to me, if the wrong people got hold of the information our motives could be most unpleasantly distorted. Some folks are always ready to believe the worst, you know.”

  Chapter 24

  SARAH TOOK A SHOT in the dark. “Ah, but outsiders don’t know you as we do, Mrs. Tawne. Once you were given the opportunity to explain, I’m sure there could be no misunderstanding. I’ve been sitting here wondering how you yourself would sum up the overall program in simple laymen’s terms.”

  “Why, I honestly hadn’t thought. I never expected to be called upon to make the announcement.” Dolores was clearly flattered by the suggestion.

  “But why shouldn’t you? I personally don’t think it’s quite fair for you to have been kept so entirely out of the limelight all this time. Do you, Mr. Bittersohn?”

  “I certainly don’t,” said Max. “Do you, Kelling?”

  “I don’t understand it at all,” said Brooks with simple truth. “You’ve never impressed me as any shrinking violet, Dolores.”

  “I hope I can put public duty before mere personal vanity, Brooks. No, I’m not going to make any formal disclosure until I receive his instructions to do so. I’ve done whatever he told me to without question for thirty-two years. Far be it from me to step in and try to hog the glory now that our great work is so near completion.”

  “What do you mean, our?” said Brooks. “You’ve just been telling us you did them all yourself.”

  “Every single brushstroke on every one of those great masterpieces is mine and mine alone,” said the artist with fierce pride, “but he has always emphasized that we work as a team. ‘You do the work and I bear the responsibility,’ he says. And I’m proud to reveal that in spite of the countless demands on his time and energies, his interest has never flagged. Never for one second.”

  Dolores waxed oratorical. “I can truthfully say that without his faith and trust, his continuing support and inspiration, I could never have accomplished what I did. When I faltered, he spurred me on. ‘I know you will not let our great work down,’ he has said time and again. Through him I have found the strength to fulfill my mission.”

  “Bravo,” cried Bittersohn. “By the way, Mrs. Tawne, I hope Mr. C. Edwald Palmerston has expressed his appreciation—er—materially as well as verbally.”

  “He has been as generous as the limitations of the museum’s budget will allow,” said Dolores stiffly, “and more. In fact he pays for every cent’s worth of my art materials out of his own pocket. His own pocket. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you that.”

  “No,” Bittersohn replied, “he didn’t.”

  “That’s so like him. ‘Do good by stealth,’ that’s his motto. I daresay he didn’t even mention that he also pays for maintaining the vault.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “It’s absolutely true. And it must be a pretty penny, what with the temperature and humidity controls and the hermetic sealing and all that, not to mention the initial cost of construction.”

  “Eh?” snapped Brooks, “what’s that?”

  “Why surely he explained about the vault. That’s the whole cornerstone of our work. That,” Dolores was orating again, “is the overwhelming responsibility Mr. Palmerston took upon himself when he first became chairman of the board of trustees. Madam Wilkins’s original purchase is preserved against the ravages of time, climate, and environmental pollution under scientifically controlled conditions in a dustproof, bombproof, radiationproof, mothproof vault, while a perfect copy is displayed to the public. It wouldn’t do, of course,” she explained in a more matter-of-fact tone, “to come straight out and say the paintings are copies, so we’ve quietly substituted them one by one as I’ve finished the duplications, and nobody has been the wiser. Never once in thirty-two years has anybody raised a question.”

  A shadow flickered across her functional countenance. “That is, nobody ever did until that old fool Joe Witherspoon started moaning about his sweetheart’s having changed. It was right after we changed the paintings, I’ll grant you that, but there’s no way Joe could have found out. That Titian I consider my masterpiece. I’ll bet I worked harder on the copy than Titian himself did on the original, and if you can find one single flaw anywhere, I’ll eat my palette.”

  “The Titian is the museum’s most valuable possession, right?” said Bittersohn.

  “Oh, yes. Far and away the gem of the collection. We left it till almost the last because, to tell you the truth, we were almost afraid to tackle it. It’s so big, and it’s a painting that really gets looked at, if you know what I mean. Mr. Palmerston was nervous as a cat on hot bricks. ‘You must positively outdo yourself this time,’ he kept telling me.”

  “And you did, Mrs. Tawne. It’s remarkable that Witherspoon managed to spot the substitution.”

  “He did no such thing! Joe was getting soft in the head from old age, that’s all.”

  “Did Mr. Palmerston know Joe was telling the other guards that the painting had been altered?”

  “There’s precious little goes on around the palazzo that Mr. Palmerston doesn’t know. Certainly he knew. I told him myself.”

  “Then it must have been something of a relief to you both, if I may say so, when Witherspoon took that header off the balcony.”

  “I’m frank to say I didn’t shed many tears when I heard the news, though I didn’t relish the adverse publicity for the museum. And when I found out that darn fool Brown had made a bad matter worse with his clowning around pretending to have been robbed, I almost had a fit. Of all the times to pick! If I’d bee
n there when it happened, I don’t say but what I might have been tempted to toss him after old Joe and be done with the pair of them.”

  “But you weren’t in the palazzo then?”

  “No, I wasn’t. If you must know, I was over at Jimmy’s place putting ice packs on his head so he’d be in some kind of shape to go to work Monday. I’m afraid it’s no great secret that my brother gets a bit above himself now and then. He’d got hold of a few extra dollars Saturday night and gone on a bender unbeknownst to me. If I’d found out in time he had the money—”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Palmerston gave it to him in a moment of forgetfulness. Jimmy does odd jobs for him sometimes and he always insists on paying, though I’ve told him over and over I wish he wouldn’t.”

  “Doesn’t he know your brother will drink up the money as soon as he gets it?”

  “I suppose he keeps hoping Jimmy will reform,” sighed Mrs. Tawne. “Being such a pillar of rectitude himself, he doesn’t always take into consideration the weaknesses of others. He’s been very understanding about Jimmy, by and large. Mr. Palmerston is one of the world’s real philanthropists.”

  Sarah thought of another experiment to try. “He more or less gave us to understand that the vault had been your idea.”

  Dolores beamed. “Isn’t that just like him! No, it was entirely his own personal inspiration. Of course I advised him on the details,” she added quickly.

  “You also picked out the location, I believe?”

  “Not I. Strange as it may seem I don’t even know where the vault is situated. He always has felt it best that I remain totally aloof from that part of the project. ‘You have enough on your shoulders as it is,’ he tells me. ‘I must not burden you with any unnecessary responsibility.’ He understands the immense pressures the creative artist is subjected to.”

  “Then you’ve never even visited the vault?”

  “Never.”

  “You just bring a painting here and copy it, then he takes away the original and that’s the last you see of it.”