The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  “Charles Watson was out there on the Lucky Lady the night his wife shot herself after killing her boyfriend.”

  “Seems like a waste. I can see killing a rat, assuming he was a rat, but why kill yourself?”

  “I see your point, but that’s what happened.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I’d like to know anything you can tell me—or find out—about the relationship between Tony and Charles Watson. Or anything about Watson, alone. Anything at all.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I promise not to fall in love with you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, a fair-minded person would also understand that I have been the Cupid in your new and profitable arrangement.”

  “You’re saying I owe you one?”

  “Kind of. And don’t forget who rescued you from the pool at the Garden of Allah.”

  “I thought I paid you back for that sometime around three A.M.“

  I had to admit she had a point. “All right. So let’s just say I’d like you to do me a favor.”

  “Okay,” she said with a grin. “I’m as fair-minded as all hell. And speaking of profitable, these are real.” She fingered her pearls. “I checked.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “That I checked or that they’re real?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, I don’t mind playing junior detective for you. The fact is, now that Manny’s going to be gone for a few days, I was planning to go out and see Tony anyway.”

  “Wanting to keep your fallback position in place?”

  “Something like that. A girl’s gotta look out for number one. But how am I supposed to ask Tony about this bird? I assume you don’t want him to know it’s part of a case you’re working on.”

  “If at all possible, no. But I haven’t come up with much of a cover story. I thought maybe we could discuss it.”

  She thought for a moment or two.

  “I got it. I don’t talk to Tony about it at all. I talk to one of the dealers. There’s a guy named Al Cohen who’s Tony’s top dealer. He’d be the one to handle those high-roller private games. He knows more Hollywood dirt than Louella Parsons. And he likes me.”

  “Who could blame him?”

  She batted her eyes with no trace of demureness, if there is such a word.

  “Smooth talker,” she purred. “So. Whaddayah think of my idea, huh?”

  “It sounds good,” I said. “At least it’s a discreet place to start.”

  “Well, you know me. I’m discreet as all hell. Now let’s eat. I’m starved. All I ever get for breakfast is lox and bagels served on a tray. And fruit. After a while, a girl wants some bacon and eggs.”

  I went back to the office. Della was there reading the paper and smoking.

  “Hiya, chief.”

  “Good afternoon, loyal employee. No writing today?”

  “I got writer’s block. Say, did you see this piece in the paper? BODY WASHES ASHORE IN MALIBU. VICTIM APPARENTLY BRAINED AND DUMPED AT SEA.”

  “What?!” A bolt of panic shot through me.

  She lowered the paper and grinned maniacally. “Just pulling your chain, chief.”

  “Jesus, Della, I didn’t need that.”

  “How’s Myrtle doing?”

  “Better than you might expect.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s got some deep currents, that girl.”

  “You have no idea how deep,” I replied. “Any calls?”

  “Some guy named Bunny, if you can believe it.”

  “I can.”

  “Sounded like one of those English pansies who are overrunning our fair city.”

  “He’s English, but that’s the extent of it. Teaches art at UCLA. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. Just that you should call him back.”

  Bunny answered after the first ring. “Finch-Hayden,” he said.

  “Bunny, it’s Bruno Feldspar.”

  “A.K.A. Thomas Parke D’Invilliers?”

  “The same. But you can call me Tom. What can I do for you?”

  “I came across a bit of information that will be of interest to you. It’s not the sort of thing I’d like to discuss over the phone, though. Could you manage to stop by my office? Whenever it’s convenient, of course.”

  “I could come over there now.”

  “Splendid. I’ll be here all afternoon, so just turn up whenever you like.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I drove down Hollywood Boulevard to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned right on Wilshire past the Los Angeles Country Club. I could see a couple of foursomes in plus-fours and sweaters and neckties. Most were hacking futilely at balls in the deep rough or pushing putts five feet past the hole. A lot of them were short and pudgy. The rest were tall and pudgy. I envied them their membership, but not their golf swings. Well, maybe someday, although I knew being a private detective was not the avenue to membership. The committee would regard that as putting a fox in the henhouse. But I didn’t intend to be doing this forever. And I fancied myself in plus-fours and a necktie. I wasn’t the least bit pudgy.

  It was another perfect day for having a convertible. In fact, so much of Los Angeles was beautiful—the palm trees, the sunshine, the clean smell of ocean air, the mountains to the east that looked closer than they were—and yet here I was; my reason for being in that paradise was to investigate multiple crimes and misdemeanors—murder, suicide, theft, forgery, gambling, clandestine sex of all descriptions.

  Well, the common denominator in the seamy side of life was always people. The more beautiful California was, the uglier the human inhabitants seemed to be. I’m not talking literally here, you understand. Obviously there were more physically beautiful people in L.A. than in any other place on the globe, although it had its share of gargoyles too, mostly people who worked behind the cameras. But there was something missing here that was always missing wherever numbers of humans congregate. Mark Twain said that God invented man because he was disappointed with the monkey, and I never argue with Mark Twain. Of course, there’s the dissenting view—“What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god!”

  Well, maybe somewhere. But not in L.A. (If you’re wondering how I came up with that Shakespeare quote, it’s easy to explain—I was helping Myrtle out with one of her homework assignments. Hamlet, if you can believe it. Based on our practice sessions, she wasn’t ready for the Bard quite yet, but she was coming along.)

  Having helped cover up a homicide, I, of course, had no grounds for moralizing, and I understood that I was not much different from everyone else. But I could live with it. And then there was the undeniable fact that all the various foibles and sins committed in this paradise were good business for me.

  I parked near the UCLA art museum and walked through the crowds of depressingly beautiful coeds, bright and fresh. They were part of the good scenery of California. They hadn’t been corrupted yet. At least they didn’t look like it. But then you couldn’t always tell by looking. One or two gave me a sly smile that indicated they might be in the starting gate.

  I knocked on Bunny’s office door and heard his cheerful “come in.”

  “Hello, Tom,” he said. “Or have you changed your name since we last talked?”

  “Not yet. I’m thinking of going with Felton Hardy, but I haven’t quite decided.”

  “It would be a sad step down from D’Invilliers. I advise against it. Have some coffee?”

  “Sure. But I thought this was always the time of day the Brits had high tea.”

  “It is. But I’m an iconoclast.”

  “I’m a Presbyterian, myself.”

  He smiled, indulgently, like a fond parent regarding an imbecilic child. And I admit, as witticisms go, mine was pretty lame.

  Once again his prim secretary materialized with a tray and
the inevitable macaroons. That aroused a sleeping black Labrador retriever, who waddled over to the tray and sniffed appreciatively.

  “This is King Arthur,” said Bunny. “Goes by Tom. Seems to prefer it. Not one to stand on ceremony, our King Arthur. ‘Large, divine, and comfortable’ about describes him. Do you know the line?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “It’s from Idylls of the King. Tennyson.”

  “Hence ‘King Arthur.’”

  “Bravo, my good D’Invilliers.”

  I made a mental note to tell my friend Hobey that I was “going by” D’Invilliers. I figured he would get a kick out of that.

  As soon as the secretary left, Bunny put the dish of macaroons on the floor. Tom dispatched them quickly and noisily and then went back to his place below the window and resumed his nap.

  “Have you ever thought about the differences in our language?” asked Bunny. “For example, we call these things ‘biscuits,’ whereas you call them ‘cookies.’ Who said the English and Americans were two people separated by a common language?”

  “I don’t know, but for me a biscuit is something you pour gravy on.”

  “I rest my case. It was either Shaw or Wilde. They both said something along those lines, I believe. Not surprising. They both were always straining after the bon mot. Shaw’s still at it, as a matter of fact. The word is, he wants to come to Hollywood and write for the pictures. Imagine that.”

  Bunny lit his pipe, and the sweet smell of expensive tobacco drifted through the room. It made me think about taking up the pipe at some point. It looked very elegant. But I wasn’t sure I could quite pull it off the way Bunny did. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket with a checked shirt and a blue-and-white ascot. Now, there was nothing unusual about ascots in this town, but Bunny was one of the few who actually didn’t look or feel self-conscious wearing one. Passing a mirror or a plate-glass window, it wouldn’t occur to him to look at his reflection. It was part of his quite genuine self-assurance. He was the kind all the others were trying to imitate.

  “I apologize for dragging you here,” he said. “But I thought it best not to tell you anything over the phone. It’s a habit I’ve picked up since I started working with the FBI. Telephone operators have large ears. Besides, I think the story will raise a number of questions.”

  Was that really the reason? I wondered. It seemed a little overly cautious. Then I remembered Gertie, the telephone operator for my office building. Then Bunny’s caution made more sense. Gertie was a friend of mine, but I knew she doubled as an escort for Della’s service, a bit of information the building manager and the phone company would frown on. A little implied blackmail and chocolates now and then went a long way toward guaranteeing confidentiality.

  “It’s no trouble,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Something interesting to us both. An art dealer I know stopped by to tell me that an important French Impressionist painting will be coming on the market in the next week or so.”

  “The Watson Monet?”

  “Very possibly, although the dealer wasn’t specific. It was just a preliminary conversation. He was a little cagey, which sent up a small-ish red flag. The interesting aspect, though, is that the sale will be private. No auction house involved.”

  “Why would this guy come to you?”

  “Well, we’ve done business before, you see, and he wanted to know if I was interested in getting involved. I told him I just might be.”

  “In what way?”

  “Helping to place it.”

  “‘Place’ it?”

  “Sell it, to be more precise. I know a great many people who are both wealthy and acquisitive, here and in New York and London. And a few other places where money lives. There is a large appetite internationally for Monet.”

  “And they say we’re in a Depression.”

  “Soup kitchens and bread lines notwithstanding, people with money are quite happy to look for bargains in the arts. Of course, the dismal economic climate affects the selling price, but the demand is still there if you know where to look.”

  “And you do.”

  “Frankly, yes. As a sideline, I’ve often helped place artwork with private buyers. It’s a nice arrangement for everyone, because there are no auction-house commissions to be paid. I also authenticate the work, so that the buyer is assured that he is getting a genuine article. Of course, there are other experts who do similar work. We tend to specialize in certain periods. I’m best known for my work on the French Impressionists.” He smiled, ironically. “No doubt you’ve read my book.”

  “It’s on my nightstand.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” he said, indicating that he knew better than to believe me.

  “But how does this market work—I mean, with no auction, how do you know what something is worth? How does anyone set the price?”

  “I help with that, too. You rely on knowledge of what has sold in the past and set a provisional price. And then there is a bidding war of sorts, albeit private. You don’t just contact one potential buyer. But the contacts are confidential, the opposite of a noisy auction room.”

  “Do you get paid for this?”

  “Of course, but my fees are much lower than those of an auction house. No overhead, you see.”

  It occurred to me that this private-placement business was the perfect way to move stolen art, and I said so.

  “It is the only way, my boy,” said Bunny. “The only way.”

  “And I suppose with your contacts, you have an idea of who might be in the market for a piece of art—with no questions asked?”

  “You mean stolen art?”

  “Yes. Or forgeries.”

  “One gets around. And hears things too. The private-placement market is actually quite active, and sometimes just as cutthroat as an auction, but entirely sub rosa. And fragmented. Lots of one-on-one confidential contacts. An ideal environment to move stolen artwork. Or forgeries, for that matter.”

  I stared at him for a moment. He must have detected the shadow of suspicion in my expression.

  “Have you. . . .”

  “Ever placed a piece of stolen art?”

  “Yes.” It was an offensive question, but Bunny did not seem in the least offended.

  “Not knowingly,” he said. “But no one knows the whereabouts of every piece of an important artist’s work. Things come on the market that you’ve never heard of. Didn’t know existed. And therefore had no idea who might have owned it or where it came from. Happens more often than one would imagine.”

  “A hundred years ago, a starving artist traded a café owner a painting for a glass of beer? And then it stayed in the family attic for generations while the artist became more and more famous—after his death in the poorhouse?”

  “Something like that, although in the case of the French Impressionists it was more often a glass of absinthe they traded for—which accelerated their passage to the poorhouse, or sometimes the madhouse. But the fact that such pieces bob up regularly has created and supported the private-placement market. And it works the other way round—the fact that there is an active private market opens the door to the sale of forged as well as stolen works. If everything were sold only in public auctions, the art thieves would be essentially out of business.”

  “Are the private buyers conscious co-conspirators in this business?”

  “Not for the forgeries, for obvious reasons. No one is a conscious dupe. But in the case of thefts, the answer is ‘quite often,’ yes. It is a wicked world, I’m afraid. You have no idea of the passion of a true collector. Many of them would jump any number of legal and moral fences to acquire something they wanted. Many are not in the least burdened by legal scruples. Not when it comes to acquiring great art. And let’s face facts, people who amass great fortunes are not always the kind of people you want to take home to mother. One does not usually become a multi-millionaire by taking soup to the poor. In fact, I firmly believe that many of them enjoy the intrigu
e. They think—in fact, they know—they are getting a valuable asset at a discount from its true open-market value. That is part of the thrill of acquisition. Of course, countries have been acquiring art this way for centuries. The Elgin Marbles, for example. Pure theft. Ask the Greeks.”

  “This all must take place pretty quickly. I mean when a painting is stolen, wouldn’t the cops or the FBI be on the case almost immediately?”

  “In theory, yes. But if you were a thief, you’d probably steal a painting in, say, Budapest, ship it quickly to New York or London, and put it into the market, privately. The better the piece, the faster it sells.”

  “And way ahead of the law.”

  “Way ahead, yes. And don’t forget, the sale is completely private—a conversation between a dealer and his client, usually a regular client. Word of the sale does not get out, regardless of how efficient the international police might be. And you won’t be shocked to hear that international cooperation between law-enforcement officials is highly inefficient. What’s more, if the thieves were clever enough to replace the stolen object with a credible forgery, the owner might not know for a week, a month—or ever, for that matter.”

  “Would a good forgery, especially one masquerading as a previously unknown work, almost always find its way to a buyer through the private-placement route?”

  “Usually. A particularly good forgery might be offered at public auction, but generally there are too many people examining the piece to make it quite comfortable for the forger. Better to take a little less and sell it privately.”

  “How do you authenticate these sudden mysterious arrivals, then?”

  “From the style, most of all. And some technical tests. It’s generally easier with a stolen piece, because, after all, it is genuine.”

  “Although you don’t know it’s stolen.”

  “No, because it’s presented as one of those ‘found in the attic’ pieces. Authenticating forgeries is another story. If I have even the slightest doubt, I don’t guarantee authenticity, just give an opinion. Say ‘it’s in the style of so and so.’ That’s usually good enough, though. At the right price, collectors are willing to take a chance now and then. It may knock down the price a bit, but the forger paid nothing for it to begin with—just a few tubes of paint, a canvas, and a little time—so anything is almost pure profit to him. And most of these people are extremely talented. They can turn out a credible forgery in a matter of days. So anything they get for their work is like the stuff you pour on biscuits.”