Phil laughed. “Not enough to buy it, I suppose. Do you sell many?”
“No, not too many,” Maxim said. He cocked his head to one side, and his lips turned up in a smile. He fingered his mustache and said, “You’re a painter, I take it?”
“Trying to be.”
“Most painters don’t like these fellows, Luk and Sloan. They call them the Ashcan School.”
“Is it a large group?”
“They’re called ‘The Eight.’ ” He named them off and said, “I take it you’d like to be number nine.”
“I like what they’re doing. Look at this one. Who did it?”
“Everett Schin.” Maxim studied Phil and said quietly, with interest, “You think that’s good?”
“Well, look at it.”
It was a portrait of the backyard of a tenement. All across the back of the painting a run-down building rose up, cluttered with junk, with clothes flapping on a drooping clothesline. At the bottom a woman was hanging out clothes, and piled against a nearby fence were broken boxes and scraps of metal. To one side was the inevitable outhouse with an open door. It was a world he had seen often, and Phil said, “I think it’s great.”
“That’s too bad.”
Phil looked at the man in surprise. “Why is it too bad?”
“Because they’re all going to starve to death, and you as well! I advise you to paint flowers. That’s what people want.”
Immediately Phil thought of Cara Lanier, with her paintings of immaculate, neatly done daisies in white porcelain pots. “I’d rather do this,” he said and shrugged.
Maxim laughed. “Come back and bring some of your work. I’ll put one in my window. Maybe somebody will buy it.”
“Why, thanks. That’ll be fine. I’ll do it.”
The visit was repeated many times and, indeed, Phil did take several of his paintings to George Maxim, who took them on commission. None of them sold, but Phil and the art dealer became fast friends.
Another friend was Avis Warwick. She was evidently in one of her working moods, for she came to the studio every day during a period of a week and a half.
“You work too hard, Phil,” she said at the end of the first week. “I think I’m working too hard, too.” She laughed at herself. “No one else ever accuses me of that.” Then abruptly she said, “You can take me out tonight—or I’ll take you. Whichever way you want to look at it.”
“All right, Avis,” Phil said. He was tired, and he agreed to meet her that night in front of the institute. He had no idea where she lived. She never mentioned her life away from the world of art. It was a bit of a mystery about her, but she apparently had plenty of money.
That night when they met, she said, “Tonight’s on me, Phil. I know you’re broke.”
“I don’t care much for a woman paying my way.”
“Is your male pride hurt?” she asked, a coy smile turning her full lips upward.
“I guess it is a little bit. I’m used to paying my own way and for my dates.”
“It won’t hurt you to break a rule now and then. I break a lot of them.” She winked at him lewdly and grinned. “I’ll tell you all about my rule breaking. Maybe we can find one to break together.”
Something about Avis Warwick seemed to relax Phil. He laughed suddenly. “All right. Where are you going to take me?”
“I’ve been wanting to see that fellow Harry Houdini perform,” Avis said. “They say no locks can hold him. I’ve always been one to try to break free from any kind of chains, so I might pick up a few tips. Come on.”
They bought tickets with Avis’s money for the front row and enjoyed the show immensely. Houdini, the famous escape artist, proved to be an entertaining fellow. He was a fine-looking man with black curly hair and direct light blue eyes and had a winsome personality. He also had a body that most men could only dream about. When he threw off his robe and stood clad only in a pair of trunks, Avis reached over and grabbed Phil’s arm. “Look at those muscles! I believe he could break those chains just by flexing his arms!”
Houdini was indeed a muscular man. He was not heavy, but every muscle seemed delineated. He allowed himself to be chained hand and foot. As he carried on a clever monologue with his audience, spiced with jokes, he slipped out of the chains as easily as a man takes off his coat.
“Look at that,” Avis said. “You need to take lessons from Harry.”
“How’s that, Avis?”
“Why, you’re all bound up, Phil. Bad upbringing. I bet your parents made you go to church and keep the Golden Rule.”
“I’m afraid so. I’m a pretty respectable fellow.” Avis leaned against him, and he felt her body pressing against his arm. When he looked at her, there was a strange light in her eyes.
“I’ll help you get out of some of that if you stay around long enough.”
After the show they went to a restaurant. This time it was Delmonico’s, and Phil enjoyed the ostentatious interior, saying, “After hamburgers and corned beef, this is pretty fancy fare.”
Avis was enjoying herself. She had dressed carefully for the occasion, which was unusual for her. Her dress was made of dark rose-colored silk and had a tight bodice decorated with lace above the bosom and down the sleeves. Neck and waist were trimmed with a darker burgundy silk, and she wore gloves to match. In addition, the flared skirt sported a large embroidered design in the same color all around the bottom. Avis was a very attractive woman, and all eyes seemed to turn toward her wherever she went. She was accustomed to the attention, though, and said, “Do you ever expect to be rich, Phil?”
“No, not likely.”
“I’ve never been poor. It must be awful.”
“Well, I’ve never been poor either. My family’s got a big ranch in Montana. I could go there if I wanted to and punch cattle for a living.”
“Too tame for you?” she asked, smiling across the table.
Phil grinned recklessly. “I guess so. I’ll probably starve to death as a poor obscure artist.”
The band began playing and Avis straightened up. “Come along. Dance with me.”
“I’m not much of a dancer,” Phil said.
“Well, I am,” Avis smiled. “I’ll show you.”
They moved out on the dance floor, and Phil looked around at the other couples. “What in the world kind of a dance is this?”
“It’s called the Grizzly Bear,” Avis said. “You don’t know it?”
“No, and I don’t think I want to either. Look at that!”
All around them men were simply putting their arms around women, and the women responded in like fashion. They were joggling around the floor hugging and laughing.
Seeing the look on Phil’s face, Avis laughed. “You look like a Puritan. Come on. Put your arms around me.” She did not wait but grabbed him in a hug, pressing her body against his, and Phil was almost forced to put his arms around her in return. “Well, we can’t just stand here hugging. Let’s dance.”
The Grizzly Bear was quite an ordeal for Phil. It appeared to him to be little more than an excuse for men to hug women and vice versa. Avis enjoyed it, but Phil was glad when they got off the dance floor.
Later on when they left, she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody like you.” They were in a carriage headed down toward Phil’s boardinghouse. When they got there, she asked, “Would you like me to come in?”
Knowing exactly what was in Avis’s mind, Phil felt strongly tempted. However, he quickly said, “I don’t think so, Avis. Not my kind of thing.”
Avis Warwick was fascinated. “I can’t read you, Phil,” she said. “Most men would beat my door down to spend a little time with me.”
“I can understand that. Nothing personal,” he said.
Avis leaned back in the carriage and asked, “Is it religion?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“You’re one of those Christians, I take it.”
“Not a very good one.” Phil felt he was getting in over his head. “I gu
ess God’s not through with me yet. Are your feelings hurt?”
“Sure they are, but it’s not over.” She smiled, leaned over, and pulled his head down. Her lips were soft under his and she moved against him. Her hands were locked behind his head, and he could not move. Suddenly she released him and laughed. “Go on in. I won’t attack you tonight. There’s always tomorrow.”
Phil stepped out of the carriage and glanced at the driver, who had turned to watch, a grin on his face. “Good night, Avis,” Phil said. “I’ll see you Monday.”
The next morning Phil awoke early, ate breakfast, and went to church. It was, perhaps, appropriate that the minister preached on Joseph’s temptation with the wife of Potiphar. He was a fine minister and was quite adept at setting forth the account with well-chosen words. He described vividly Potiphar’s attractive wife as she tried to seduce the youthful Joseph. As the preaching went on, Phil was suddenly very glad that he had been able to pull himself away from Avis Warwick.
After the service he wandered the streets for a while, then decided to pay a visit to Peter Winslow and his companions. He arrived to find them out in the backyard working on the car. He was surprised to see Clinton Lanier there as well. Clinton, dressed in what appeared to be some of Peter’s castoffs, was bent over peering into the car’s inner works, but as Phil approached, Clinton straightened.
“Why, Phil,” Clinton said, “glad to see you!”
“Hello, Clinton. What are you doing here?” Phil asked, shaking the man’s hand.
“Peter’s letting me help with the car a little bit.” He grinned and suddenly looked much younger than his twenty-seven years. “These three act like I’m going to wreck it or something.”
Jolie Devorak was also wearing an old set of mechanic’s coveralls. She had a spot of grease on her cheek, and her black hair shone in the afternoon sunlight. “We’re going to make him our mechanic. He can do all the dirty work.”
Easy grunted. “He’s going to have to learn more than he knows now.” Easy was very jealous of the Jolie Blonde, but he really liked young Lanier. “He’s learning, though. I’m giving him lessons.”
“Doesn’t look like you need any more help here, Peter,” Phil said.
Peter shook his head and returned the grin. “Never had so many volunteers.”
“I’ll just watch. I don’t know much about cars.”
It was a pleasant afternoon for Phil. He had developed a real liking for Clinton and also for Peter. They took a midafternoon break and sat around drinking the lemonade that Jolie had brought out. She had gotten ice and chipped it with an ice pick, filling their glasses. As they drank it, Peter mentioned that Cassidy had written him.
“He knows more about the Winslows than anybody I ever heard.”
“He sure does,” Phil agreed. “You know much about our family tree?”
“Not as much as I should,” Peter said. “My father does, though. He keeps up with it. He’s always talking about Christmas Winslow. Now there was a man for you.”
“Who was that?” Jolie asked.
“Why, he was a mountain man. He trapped beavers and married a woman who was half Indian. I think her name was White Dove,” Phil said. “My favorite, I think, was a man called Gilbert Winslow. He came over on the Mayflower.”
The two men talked about their family history, and Clinton said, “I think it’s great that you know all about your family all the way back to the days of the Mayflower. I don’t know anybody past my grandfather on my mother’s side.”
“Well, maybe you’ll be the start of a dynasty, Clinton,” Phil said.
Jolie had been listening, fascinated as always with the Winslow lineage. Now she said, “I guess you two are the real aristocrats. The rest of us are just pups.”
Clinton laughed with her. “I think you’re right, Jolie.”
“Well, you’re a rich pup, anyway,” Jolie teased him.
“That’s my father. He controls all the money.”
“You’ll take over though one day, won’t you?” Jolie asked. She was curious about this man, for he was strangely shy for the son of a wealthy stockbroker. The two of them drew off to one side, and as the others were talking about the engine of the car, she asked, “Don’t you like being a stockbroker?”
“Not much. If I had my way, I’d be a tinker or a mechanic.”
“Can’t you do that as a hobby?”
“Do you know you’ve got grease on your face?”
Startled, Jolie reached up to touch her cheek.
“No, over on this side.” Clinton whipped out his handkerchief and reached out, but the grease was on the side by Jolie’s scar and she turned away. He said, “I was just going to wipe it off.”
Jolie grew quiet and seemed to have lost her liveliness. She stood there for a moment, then shrugged. “All right.” She turned her face and stood there watching him as he removed the grease. She watched for some sign of revulsion in his eyes but saw none.
“That’s a bad scar. How’d you get it?” he asked casually.
“It looks awful, doesn’t it?”
“Why, no!” Clinton said. “Of course, no scars are particularly nice, I suppose. Why don’t you get it fixed?”
“It costs a lot of money.”
The abruptness of her reply startled Clinton. Money was not one of his problems, and suddenly he was confronted with a young woman whose dark eyes were bitter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget about money. I don’t care much about it myself.”
“You know, I don’t think you do. And you really don’t seem to mind this scar either, but I do. I think about it every day. I try to find ways to let my hair cover it, but that doesn’t work.”
“You’re very pretty, Jolie, and more than that, you’re a fine young woman. I enjoy being around you.”
Jolie flushed and said, “Why . . . thank you, Clinton. That’s nice of you to say.”
“Not hard to say at all.”
“Why haven’t you ever married?” she asked abruptly. “Most men your age are at least thinking about it.”
“Because if I did, I’d have to bring her into our house, and I wouldn’t bring any young woman there.”
Surprised, Jolie arched her eyebrows. “Why, that’s a fine house you live in, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. The house is fine. It’s just that—well, sometimes it gets a little tense inside.”
Jolie waited for him to go on but saw that he was embarrassed. “I didn’t have a very good family life myself,” she said. “It was my stepfather who gave me this.”
“Sometimes,” Clinton said slowly, his eyes filled with gloom, “I wish my father would hit me with something. It would be better than all the other things he does that bother me. Well, I don’t want to complain,” he said, not wanting to burden this young woman with his troubles, “but I do want to talk to Peter about the car.” He turned and the two approached the trio who were bent over the engine. “Peter, I’ve got to go,” he said, “but I want to help with the car. I know I’m not enough of a mechanic for the actual work, but I can help with the money.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an envelope and said, “I’ve squirreled this away, and I want you to use it to fix up the Jolie Blonde.”
Peter stared at Clinton with astonishment. “Why, I couldn’t let you do that, Clinton!”
“Why not?”
“Well, you’ll never get it back, for one thing.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’d just like to be a part of what’s going on.”
Peter Winslow stared at the young man and then smiled. “All right. You’re on.” He took the money and handed it to Easy. “There you go, Easy.”
The small man opened it and stared at the cash on the inside. “Wow!” he said, thumbing through it. “Let me add it up. Tomorrow morning the Jolie Blonde gets a new shot of life.”
Jolie smiled at Clinton. “Peter and Easy and I have called ourselves the Three Musketeers. I guess it’ll have to be the Four Musketeers now.”
“Well, actu
ally,” Phil said, “there were four musketeers.”
“There were?” Jolie asked with surprise. “I thought there were only three.”
“There were three at first, but then they were joined by a young fellow named D’Artagnan,” Phil said. “It was one of my favorite books. Still is. D’Artagnan was quite a fellow.” He reached over and slapped Clinton on the shoulder. “You’ll have to work hard to keep up with him. You’ve read the book?”
“Yes. I always admired D’Artagnan but never saw myself as a hero.”
Jolie reached over and took his hand and shook it. “You’re our hero if you can help us win the races.”
Very much aware of four pairs of eyes fastened on him, Clinton suddenly felt warmly accepted. With these friends he felt he was part of something exciting. “That’s great. I’ll do what I can, but don’t tell my father about this. He’d have a stroke.”
“We won’t be likely to see him,” Phil said.
“Well, you might. Cara asked me to give you an invitation. She gets real lonely, Phil. She doesn’t have any visitors at all—just the family. You’re the first one she’s invited to come visit in who knows how long. I’d like for you to do it, if you would.”
Phil actually had thought of going by to see Cara, but his last visit had been rather disastrous. Nevertheless, he said quickly, “Why, I’d be glad to, Clinton. Did she name a time?”
“Later this afternoon, if you can make it.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Why, Mr. Winslow, come in.”
Phil stepped inside the door of the Lanier home, greeted by Mary Ann Lanier. He was not wearing a hat or a coat, so he couldn’t offer either of them to her. Instead, he smiled, saying, “How are you, Miss Mary Ann?”
“Fine. I’m so glad to see you.”
Mary Ann was a very attractive young woman, her blond hair and blue eyes nicely complemented today by her green tailored day dress. There was a lightness about her spirit that was pleasing—except when her father was present. Then she, like all the rest of the family, grew sober and even gloomy.
“Won’t you come into the library? I have someone I’d like for you to meet.”
Wondering who it could be, Phil said, “Of course.” He followed her into the library, and a young man who was looking out the window turned and stood there expectantly.
The Shadow Portrait Page 9
