False colors

by Powell, Richard, 1908-1999

  I wondered if I could teach her how to make coffee right. On the other hand, maybe it would be better to leave her with that small appealing flaw. "It was very good," I said.

  "Now tell me what happened last night. I know it wasn't just a binge."

  I gave her the story straight, without trying to make myself look good.

  "Why, you were wonderful I" she said at last.

  "Have you been listening?"

  "The way you stood up to those men was wonderful."

  "I didn't stand up to them. I fell down."

  "But you refused to tell them what they wanted to know."

  "That's only because they didn't ask me. They were asking your friend Nick, and he wasn't there."

  "What exactly were the words they used?"

  I told her as much as I could remember, including the remark of one guy that Nick wasn't in a spot to play cute with him. When I repeated that to Nancy, she nodded thoughtfully. I said, "You're holding something out on me. You know something about Nick that you haven't mentioned."

  "It's just a little thing. A while back he was in jail."

  "Oh. A little tiling. Nothing but murder, I suppose?"

  "Don't be silly. About five years ago he got in with a wild young crowd in South Philadelphia. They were driving one night and ran out of gas and found they didn't have any money. A gas station attendant wouldn't trust them for it, so they jumped him and swiped the gas. They were all caught. The police called it a holdup."

  "Cops are narrow-minded that way. So he's an unlucky kid and society is to blame and—"

  "Society is not to blame. Nick was to blame, and he knows it. He was in jail more than two years and now he's out on parole. Maybe those two men were threatening him with the police. He might have broken a parole rule or something."

  "That's quite a remarkable statement," I said. "You wouldn't be likely to make it, if you were just guessing. So I have a hunch he did break a parole rule, and that you know about it."

  "I wish you wouldn't be so horribly clever. You don't have to catch me up every time I make a slip. Well, all right, it's true that he could get in trouble with the parole office. But all he did was break a little technical rule and it really wasn't wrong at all. I'm not going to tell you what it was."

  "There are several things you won't tell me about Accardi, aren't there? You wouldn't tell me why he didn't want you to mention his Garden fight, either. By the way, I guess I saw him on television last night."

  "Television?" she cried. "But he wasn't to be on television! It was just an extra bout."

  "The main fight ended in the third round so they brought on

  the extra bout. One of the guys in it reminded me of those Ac-cardi self-portraits."

  "Oh dear! Television! I hope it doesn't get him into trouble. He wasn't using his right name, was he?"

  "No. So . . . wait a minute. Is that the way he's been breaking rules? Skipping out of the state to take fights, without an okay from the parole office?"

  "Well, yes. But you can see it's only a little technical tiling. And it's the only way he could make a living."

  "Why didn't he get permission?"

  "A few months ago he did ask if he could take a fight in Trenton. The parole office started asking a lot of questions and Nick got angry and they turned him down, to teach him a lesson. So he swore he wouldn't ask them again."

  "He better ask them to put him away for a spell," I said. "It might be healthier than meeting those thugs who worked on me.

  "Pete, why did they want one of his pictures so badly?"

  "You remember that weird one with all the swirls in it? That's a secret diagram that shows you how to open bank vaults."

  "You aren't taking this seriously."

  "Do you think I'm laughing off that beating I took last night? I don't know why they want any of his pictures. Anyway I'm not interested, since were going to call off the show."

  "Who said we are?"

  "A guy named Pete Meadows. If you're not bright enough to see that we can t go on with it, I'll be bright for you. A couple of tough characters are after Accardi's stuff. I don't want to be worked over twice. I don't want you to be worked over even once. So we're not going to put on a show and maybe have guys like them dropping in."

  "I'm not afraid."

  'Tin scared enough for two."

  She put a hand on my arm and said softly, "You're not scared. You have a lot of courage. Yesterday it took courage to stand up to Sheldon the way you did."

  "Oh, that? That's moral courage. Sure, I have moral courage. It has nothing to do with taking smacks in the teeth."

  "I don't see how you can admit you're afraid."

  "All it takes," I said modestly, "is some more moral courage."

  "Pete, we've got to help Nick. He has talent. With a little help he can get ahead in art. But he has no money and it's awfully hard for an ex-convict to get a decent job. Sooner or later, if he can't make a living in art or in any other honest way, he'll be getting in trouble again."

  "You're so right. Except that he's in trouble already, and I don't think he got there by spending his spare time in church. Stay out of it, Nancy."

  "It's too late," she said, with a gleam in her eye. "I'm already in it, and so are you."

  "I just walked out, taking you and the one-man show with me. That will at least stop you from inviting Nick's tough friends to drop around."

  "It's too late," she said firmly. She got up and brought me a copy of the morning paper. "Look at page three," she said.

  I looked at the paper. I'm not a very important guy, and the only part of the paper I ever expected to make was the obituary page. Judging from what I was reading, I might make it ahead of schedule. There was a three-column photo of Nancy and me looking at Accardi's paintings in Rittenhouse Square. There was a loud headline: CLOTHESLINE ARTIST MAKES OVERNIGHT LEAP TO FAME. There was a story about how a young socialite named Nancy Vernon and a well-known art dealer named Peter Meadows had discovered the work of a talented young artist being peddled at the Clothesline Art Exhibit to pay back rent. They had bought all the paintings and were going to give the starving genius a one-man show tonight at. . .oh yes, there was my address.

  "Speaking of overnight leaps," I said, "I think I will make one to San Francisco."

  "Oh, Pete, I'm sure it's not as bad as all that. How do you know anything will go wrong?"

  "I can feel it in my bruises."

  "Honestly," she said, "I wouldn't have done this if I had known what was going to happen to you last night."

  "You tricked me into posing for that photo. You said it was for your scrapbook."

  "You didn't like Nick's paintings and I was afraid you'd object to publicity. But it really wasn't a lie about the scrapbook. Only a sort of fib. Bill—the photographer, that is—has been kidding me for years about using the newspapers as my scrapbook."

  "You went to the Inquirer and gave them all this stuff?"

  "And . . . and to the Bulletin, too. It's probably in their first edition right now. So it's too late for us to call off the show. And I've called up dozens of people to come tonight. We'll probably be mobbed."

  "Any time I want to jump off a bridge," I growled, "I will certainly hire you to handle the publicity. I bet at tire final moment, if I hesitated, you'd even give me a little push off the edge."

  "I really wish for your sake there were some way to get out of this."

  "But not for your own sake, huh?"

  "Well, no," she said firmly. "Whatever trouble Nick is in—and I know it can't be his fault—this will bring it to a head. Then maybe I can help him get out of it. And I can't think of anybody I'd rather have helping me than you. You will, won't you?"

  When it comes to ways to stay out of trouble I have a very

  32

  agile mind. But in this case all it could do was run in circles. If we put on the show we were sure to attract Accardi's pals. If we called off the show, they were just as likely to come around. After al
l, you had to assume that they could spell out the headlines in the Inquirer and the Evening Bulletin. And there were pictures to help them identify Nancy and me. It would be better to have the show. Then at least they would come after me, instead of perhaps calling on Nancy in the dark.

  "Sure I'll help you," I said. "There's nothing I like better than a good fight, except to avoid one. Let's go downstairs and make sure that nobody's holding up Miss Krim yet."

  Downstairs, nothing was wrong with Miss Krim except the sight of me. After giving me the deep-freeze treatment for a while she backed me into a corner for a private lecture. She was very disappointed in me, she said. For the first time since she had known me, I had shown an interest in a very fine girl. That made Miss Krim hopeful. But I almost wrecked everything by my performance last night. Perhaps there was still a chance. Miss Krim hoped that from now on I would stay out of trouble.

  I promised her to try my best. That seemed to make her happy. If I could keep my promise it would make me happy too.

  While this was going on, Nancy was admiring our exhibit room and studying the paintings. When I joined her, she pointed to the weird painting and said, "I'm sure this is the one they're after."

  "Got any reasons for picking it?"

  "It's the one your friend Mr. Lassiter wanted to buy."

  "He's not my friend and maybe he just wanted it for a laugh. I'll prove to you that anybody could do a slapdash job like this." I went back in the shop and got the painting I had done the previous night, trying to duplicate Accardi's effect. "Take a look at this," I said, and held it up beside Accardi's canvas.

  For a moment Nancy was startled. But then she said, "I don't know what you're trying to prove. I can tell them apart. Where did you get the second one?"

  I explained how and why I had done it. "What it proves," I

  said, "is that even a guy who's not an artist can mess paint around the way Accardi did."

  "Oh, but I like his better," she said, missing the point.

  I shrugged, and put my canvas back in the office.

  Nothing much happened the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. We had a fair amount of business and I had to help Miss Krim in the shop. Nancy made more phone calls to friends, urging them to come to the opening of the show. I had hoped to take her to lunch, but a couple of her girl friends showed up and went out with her. They were going to play hostess that evening, and serve tea and fancy cookies. For a couple of the visitors I was expecting, I would have preferred knockout drops.

  The one-man show wasn't scheduled to open until eight that night but at 4:00 p.m. we had our first visitor. She was a tall brunette with a skin like gardenia petals. She was wearing a tiny white hat with a blue veil that just covered her eyes, and a navy suit with white cuffs and collar. Her figure seemed too good to be true, like finding dollar bills for sale at ninety cents, but I didn't let myself get blinded by suspicion. She came into the shop and looked around disdainfully, as if she were shopping for mink and had bumped into rabbit.

  "May I help you?" I said.

  Behind the blue veil a couple of dark eyes summed me up and got a small total. "There is something in the paper about an exhibit you are holding," she said. "I would like to see it." She had an interesting voice, like a mandolin with a crack in it.

  "It doesn't open officially until eight tonight."

  "I hope," she said, putting a couple of sleepy chords into her voice, "you won't be official with me."

  "Can't you come back tonight? We'd be delighted to have you then. The show isn't ready and—"

  "This isn't idle curiosity. I can't promise, but I might want to buy something. But I never buy things that have been pawed over. Perhaps you've heard of me. Kay Raymond. Interiors."

  "Oh yes," I said. "You have a shop over on Locust Street, don't

  you? Isn't there an African mask in your show window, lying on some kind of yellow cloth?"

  "Shantung silk," she said. "Effective contrast, don't you think—a crude ebony mask on shantung? One of the paintings shown in that newspaper photograph this morning gave me an idea for another effective contrast, for one of my clients. But of course I must study the color scheme of the painting to see if it's right. So may I see the paintings?"

  I decided that was all right, and led her into the exhibit room. Nancy was doing some kind of lettering on small white cards with India ink and a Speedball pen. She and Miss Raymond exchanged up-and-down looks, the type that women rate from each other when they're attractive enough to be annoying. I introduced them, and explained the deal to Nancy. Miss Raymond began walking around the room and studying each picture carefully.

  Nancy sidled up to me. "Your Miss Raymond," she said, "looks like quite a number."

  "She's rather striking."

  "The way you made an exception for her, she must have seemed that way to you."

  "Common business courtesy. She's in somewhat the same line that I am."

  "Kay Raymond, Interiors, hm? She ought to go on the night club circuit and wear slinky gowns and bill herself as Kay Raymond, Exteriors. Woo-hoo!"

  "Shh! She'll hear you. Aren't you being catty?"

  "I certainly am," she said cheerfully. "That girl makes me feel as if I had been brought up strapped between two boards."

  I cleared my throat. "If you would like a comment on that. . ."

  "No thanks. What on earth is she doing now?"

  Miss Raymond was taking samples of material from her handbag and holding them up beside various paintings to get the effect. "She's seeing if they match her material," I said.

  "Ugh. What a way to buy art. As if it were yard goods. I think I'll tack up the prices and scare her off."

  "What prices?"

  "I've been lettering the price of each painting on a card. I haven't quite finished but I think I'll put some up."

  She picked up several of the cards and began thumbtacking them under pictures. I was startled at the prices she had set. A hundred and fifty bucks for one of the city scenes. Two hundred for another. Three hundred for each of the self-portraits. Two hundred and fifty for one of the landscapes. Some fairly well-known local artists wouldn't mind prices like those. And Accardi was a complete unknown. I looked at Miss Raymond. The prices didn't seem to bother her.

  "One of these," Miss Raymond said, "definitely interests me. I can see it as the dominant point in a room I'm doing for a client. The room is black and white, with free-form furniture. I think one of these paintings is just what I need. But I don't see a price card for it."

  "Which one is that?" Nancy asked.

  Miss Raymond made a languid gesture. "This," she said, and waved at the weird one.

  I wanted to sell the thing and get it out of my sight, but I didn't like the idea of fooling anyone. "I don't recommend that one," I said. "It's only a slapdash experiment in form and color."

  "But I like the form and color."

  "If you'll take a good look," I said, "you'll see that Accardi used a lot of vermilion in it. That's a very unstable color. It may turn black after being exposed to sunlight for a while. Also vermilion can react badly with other colors. See where it was splashed over this green? If that's emerald green, which is basic copper arsenate, it will turn black in time. Of course it might be oxide of chromium which would be better, but—"

  "How about talking English for a while?" Miss Raymond said.

  "Well, maybe it does sound technical, but—"

  "He used regular oil paints, didn't he? Why should they go wrong?"

  "All paints have chemicals in them. Any chemical may react with another chemical to form a third chemical. A painter has to handle them properly, just as a chemist does. Sure, you can

  use vermilion. The old masters used it all the time. But they isolated it from other colors by glazes. And it ought to be protected from sunlight by, say, a tempera emulsion."

  "I don't want to buy a short course in art. I just want to buy this painting."

  I said patiently, "I'm trying to expla
in that, as time goes on, this painting will change and ruin your color effect."

  "By that time my client will want the room done over anyway. Do you want to sell it or don't you?"

  "As long as you understand what you're buying, I'll be delighted. What's the price, Nancy?"

  "Just a moment," she said. "I'll have to check my list."

  She walked back to her table and pulled out a card and picked up the Speedball pen. I sauntered over to the table and glanced at the card. Then I stiffened. The card already said three hundred bucks. But Nancy was deliberately changing the number three into an eight. Eight hundred bucks!

  Miss Raymond's voice came from right behind me. "Now really," she said, "that isn't fair. I can see what you're doing. I might be willing to pay three hundred but not eight hundred."

  Nancy looked up brightly. "I always make my eights in sections and they look like threes at first."

  I scowled at her. "Of course I don't have the say on this," I growled, "but eight hundred is ridiculous."

  "Yes, isn't it?" Nancy said. "Does this look more sensible?" She added a one in front of the eight and put down a big dollar sign. "I always make my numbers backward, from right to left," she said. "There we are, eighteen hundred."

  "Unfortunately," Miss Raymond said, "this room I'm doing over is not the inside of a bank vault. So I'd better leave this little treasure here. Call me if deflation sets in." She turned and left the room.

  I asked Nancy, "Are you out of your mind?"

  She looked pleased with herself and said, "I went out of my mind and took a peek into hers. Very instructive."

  "You killed a nice sale by kiting that price."

  "That's what I wanted to do."

  "Three hundred bucks would have been wonderful for that thing."

  "You'd love to get rid of it, wouldn't you, Pete?"

  "I'd sell it for five dollars and allow ten bucks off for cash."

  "And I'd sell it," Nancy said, "for the answer to the mystery of why people want it so badly."

  "You must have been brought up in a haunted house," I said irritably. "How can you possibly claim that this is the painting they all want?"