Sugar Shannon
Page 21
Because the package was a picture.
“The Polynesian Widow,” I said.
Jacques didn’t answer me. He had fallen to the right and was staring at the pail of rags behind the stairs, his face a mask of impossible anger. It was a mad tableau. I sat on the bottom step, half dead with smoke poisoning, unable to move, unable to slide an inch toward freedom.
“The fire,” he said slowly. “You did this deliberately, alors?”
“I did, alors.”
“Ingenious, ma petite.”
“It was nothing, Jacques. You’re the clever one, selling Donner the original Gauguin and then stealing it after he hung it in his gallery. You figured nobody would ever challenge the authenticity of the Gauguin once it hung in Donner’s place. That was why you hired George DeBeers to paint you an imitation.”
“Donner is a moron,” Jacques said with Gallic nastiness. “Donner does not deserve so great a painting. Nor do the stupid visitors to his museum.”
“Donner may not agree with you.”
“Donner will never know.”
“He’ll know,” I said. “Because I’ll tell him.”
“You are an optimist, alors.”
“I am a reporter, also, alors. I intend to report other facets of your strange personality, Jacques. You are somewhat of a French pig, monsieur. You also operated a narcotics business on the side. It was you who employed Marianne Fry to feed the addicts down in the Village. That was why you had to kill her, isn’t it? Marianne was preparing to leave town permanently. You were upset when you discovered this. You were also upset by a discovery at Serena’s office, weren’t you?”
“Continue, ma petite.”
My throat was still scratched and raw from the smoke, but I ignored it and went on. “You found out that your old friend Serena still had an early DeBeers imitative picture—the Hudson River landscape. So you instructed Serena to rob herself—to rid herself of that piece of damaging evidence. You were afraid somebody might tie George in with the Donner swindle. Only you and Serena knew about it, isn’t that right?”
“Serena would not gossip about it,” Lambert said with a sly smile. “Neither will you, alors.”
“Maybe you’re wrong, alors. I love to gossip. I can’t wait to tell the world how you hooked George DeBeers into the fakery. Poor George, he probably was ready to spill the story to the press. That’s why he called me, I’ll bet. So you killed him for two reasons. You wanted the Gauguin secret to remain buried. You also were worried George would find out from Marianne who supplied narcotics for her clientele. That was why you followed her to her room and killed her while I was there.”
“Incroyable,” said Jacques calmly. “How clever you are, Mademoiselle Shannon. And are you clever enough to know what I shall do with you now? Are you clever enough to realize that I shall take you upstairs and abandon you there while I start a real fire? Come, ma chérie—I have work to do.”
He stepped my way and lifted me in his arms. The smoke had leveled me, weakened me so that I could only claw at him feebly. He stood there, scowling, mumbling a rapid fire barrage of French sentiments. In another moment the world would go black around me when he took his first step up the decorative staircase. My ears seemed to ring with mad music, a queasy chorus of dizziness. But before I fainted, Jacques was forced to put me down, suddenly, to face another danger, somebody who leaped at him from across the vestibule. I heard him cry out in rage. I heard him scuffling and swaying as he moved against the stranger.
And then I heard nothing.
CHAPTER 18
10:34 P.M. Saturday
I was in a small dream, involving Jacques Lambert, a desert island and a chase around a mango tree. Jacques was gaining on me, about to trip me on a grassy hillock when I awoke.
“Horace, darling,” I breathed, because he was with me, holding me in his arms in the vestibule of Lambert’s apartment. “Am I dreaming? Pinch me.”
“That wouldn’t be nice, Sugar.”
“Nice, shmice. Try it.”
“How do you feel? Better?”
“What happened to Gwen?”
“She sends apologies,” Horace said. “She looked for a policeman as you instructed her. But on the way, she stopped in a bar for a drink and discovered a man—”
“Don’t tell me. A man with a guitar?”
“How did you know?”
“Forget about Gwen,” I smiled. “Let’s talk about you. What brought you here, lover?”
“Interesting question,” said Horace. “I spent a few hours early this morning checking the story of the Gaugin sale to Eric Donner. I was puzzled by the robbery at Serena’s office. It seemed to me that the theft was pretty zany, almost ridiculous. Then I recalled the stories of George DeBeers’ early career, the time when he painted anything to earn a living. He was a great copyist, and if Lambert hired him for the Gauguin swindle it would account for the large sums of money he paid George from time to time. That was why I came here tonight—to check Lambert on a few points, especially his bank book.”
A few of the uptown police still roamed the place, checking the apartment carefully. I recognized one of the boys from Abe Fine’s squad, probably on the prowl for information about Lambert’s source of narcotics. A little black man with a black bag checked my pulse and pronounced me among the living.
“Take this girl out into the air,” he advised Horace. “Her lungs need it.”
“I feel like a smoked sturgeon,” I commented.
Horace found a cab and we got in and he said: “I’ll buy you a drink if you promise not to phone your paper until I phone mine.”
“A deal,” I said. “If I can name the place for the drink.”
“Name it.”
“My flat, darling?”
“Impossible,” said Horace. “Gwen told me she was taking that guitarist back there.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight and Marston la France.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1960 by Lawrence Lariar
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5750-9
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