by Howard Engel
“This Lamb, now. What do you think? I’d part with the Pissarro next to it or the Miro over there by the Klee before I’d give this up. Look at the underpainting! What a marvel!” I tried to look at the underpainting, at the same time wondering what weather conditions would ever make underpainting necessary. I wondered if paintings ever leaked after a Canadian winter. I couldn’t see it, but I was still learning.
“Did you get it from Tallon?” I asked, trying to keep a foot in the conversation.
“I got most of my Canadian pictures from Arthur at one time. My father is responsible for most of the European things like this Giacometti figure. That’s a Lautens over there. He missed on Lipchitz, Maillol and Brancusi,” he added with a flattering smile. It worked too; I was quite proud of myself for being taken for somebody who can recognize the holes a few missing Lipchitz and Brancusis can make in your sculpture collection. “Father was one of Kahnweiler’s only Canadian customers.” I nodded and tried to remember where I’d heard that name tossed around before.
“With all this European stuff, Mr. Abraham, why all the panic about the Canadian things like the pictures on Pambos Kiriakis’s list? The Canadians must represent only a tiny part of the value of, say, a collection like this one.”
“A good question, Mr. Cooperman.” He rubbed his hands together like he was going to enjoy answering it. While he talked, we continued to walk around looking at the pictures. “The European pictures were bought by my father years ago. He bought them in France mostly as I’ve said from dealers like Kahnweiler. Others he bought here from people who deal in European canvases and sculptures. They represent the largest part of this collection, which my father left me in a sort of Gertrude Stein– Alice B. Toklas arrangement. I mean I have a life interest in it. I couldn’t begin to estimate the value of this part of the collection should it ever come to light at a public auction. The smaller part of the collection is something I’ve built up myself. These are the Canadian things like those Cullens over there and these Colvilles and Pratts. In monetary terms, you can’t compare them with the European part of the collection, although I should think I could get six figures for every major Canadian work in this room.
“The reason for the panic about Mr. Kiriakis’s list is that it represents free gold. Tallon, as I’m sure you know by now, was notoriously bad about keeping track of the paintings he dealt with. Some, no doubt, were left with him on consignment, but he had a regular dealer relationship with most of the painters. He was always buying things from them in order to keep them in paint and tobacco. I’ve heard stories that he bought many canvases at prices that would now be considered ridiculously low. But in those day there was no market for these works. You see, many of these painters had no reputation when Tallon took them on. When their reputations grew, they went on to other dealers in many cases. Tallon’s operation was always underfinanced. The collection he built up was built with love on a shoestring. The irregularities that you are investigating involve trifling amounts of money when compared to the total value of Tallon’s collection as a whole. You will be cleaning up loose ends, enabling those settling the estate to get on with the job.”
“Then why was Pambos Kiriakis killed?”
“Mr. Cooperman, I’m sorry to puncture your balloon. I am only guessing, of course, but I think when the police uncover Mr. Kiriakis’s murderer, it will be, like most murders, a rather sordid domestic incident perhaps a vindictive room clerk or waiter that he fired who carried a grudge. The money involved in the pictures represented on Kiriakis’s list would never be worth a human life.”
“Maybe you put a higher price on it than other people?”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh, “you are right. To some a life has no value at all.”
“Your Canadian pictures came from Tallon?”
“I got most of them from him at one time. I do have connections in Toronto and Montreal, but he was the only local dealer I’d give the time of day to. Years ago, Arthur took me under his long, lean wing and taught me how to look at pictures. That was one of the things my mother and father took for granted. It probably accounted for the turmoil it took six psychiatrists years to sort out. Tallon taught me what my parents thought I’d learned with breathing and walking. Tallon showed me what to look for, and later, what to buy. He had a remarkable eye. Uncanny.”
“So, you believe in the list?”
“Oh, yes; I believe in it,” he said, his eyes developing a network of smile lines as he looked at me. “And I have a better reason for putting you to work on it than poor Mr. Kiriakis had. He was just trying to put the cat among the pigeons. I need to find this list, because without it there is a shadow cast on the whole Canadian part of my collection. Without the list …” Here he broke off. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned to see a young woman standing at the far end of the gallery. I hadn’t heard a sound. She was wearing jeans and a denim jacket over a white shirt. She crossed the room with a glide that didn’t seem like walking at all. Jonah held out his arm and reeled her into an affectionate embrace.
“I came back,” she said simply. “I got sick of it, so I came back.” She turned to me, and looked up at me with salamandrine eyes. That moved her father to make the necessary introductions. This was Anna, Jonah Abraham’s youngest. I felt my throat going dry as I made with a minimum of small talk. If her father had continued about his grafting of rhododendrons, I wouldn’t have noticed. I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t care. Suddenly all of my interests had been absorbed by the five-foot-seven figure standing beside her millionaire father.
ELEVEN
When I came to my senses again, Anna had gone and Jonah was maundering on about paintings again. He was worried about the appearances of things. If some of Tallon’s paintings were unaccounted for, and Abraham had the largest private collection of Canadian art in this part of the country, then naturally, he felt, suspicion would attach itself to him no matter how many bills of sale he waved in people’s faces.
“Without that list of our dead friend, I’ll never enjoy title to all this in a clear and uninterrupted way.” He waved his arms at particular paintings, looking at them as he spoke, a special look for each of his treasures, like they were his children, each with its special talents and associations.
“But, you’d have papers …”
“I’m not worried about legal ownership. I do have a few battered receipts from Arthur for most of this, but people will talk, and I hate talk. A man in my position. I have to be twice as honest as the next fellow because my money was made in the family liquor business. In the twenties my father and uncles were bootleggers running booze over the border. Today, nobody says that to my face. Nobody.” From the expression on his face I wouldn’t want to challenge him. Jonah Abraham was his own man. He knew his worth and the extent of his power. I felt like I should make some gesture to show that I had no intention of rubbing his nose in his past. And to me, growing up on the edge of the Niagara River practically, the rum-running days were part of our colourful history, like the battle of Queenston Heights in the War of 1812. I knew vaguely of elderly people around town who were known to have played a part trafficking in Canadian liquor moving across the river to New York State. A high-school friend’s father had run a boat above the falls on the Niagara River, hoping that the US Coast Guard wouldn’t come as close to the upper rapids as he did. Savas had a friend near Queenston, an old rum-runner who now ran a prohibition-style after-hours roadhouse and restaurant. Here they served drinks openly, not even in teapots. To me, the whole era was colourful and full of the excitement of death-defying feats of bravery. Of course, there was a lot about it I didn’t know. Al Capone in Chicago and the Purple Gang in Detroit seemed to belong to another legend entirely. Abraham continued talking and I tuned in:
“But,” he said, “I’m a realist. I don’t lie to myself. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never had a parking ticket in my entire life. It doesn’t matter that I have next to nothing to do with the business end any mor
e. I still have to be twice as public-spirited as the next man.” He smiled and went on. “You know that pool for kids in Emerson Coalsworth Park? That was me. You think I wanted that plaque stuck on it with my name two inches high? Look around you and tell me if that’s the sort of man I am.” He seemed to be speaking rhetorically, so I kept my eyes on his. “But people have to be reminded. You can’t give them a minute to forget.” I nodded slowly and Abraham’s eyes relaxed their grip on mine. He took my arm again and led me through to the room we’d started in half an hour ago.
“Will you have another drink, Mr. Cooperman?” he asked, reaching down for his lethal concoction of Bloody Marys. He poured one for himself while waiting for me to make up my mind.
“Sure. You make a good drink, Mr. Abraham.” He poured me a refill, but in a fresh glass. I guess he wasn’t doing the washing up. Our exchange of “misters” had formalized things again. He was in the act of hiring me and I’d just been put through an interview. I wasn’t sure how I’d come out. He could have noticed that my attention drifted away from time to time, but maybe he was one of those ear-breathers who talk a lot but don’t pay too much attention to whether much listening is going on. I didn’t know. I still felt the sting in my eyes from his intense brown eyes. I sipped the drink, feeling the chill against my cheek of the glass in my hand.
“Your health, sir.”
“Thanks. Happy days.” A herd of angels flew by while we worked on our private thoughts. Finally, I heard myself speaking my doubts out loud. “Mr. Abraham, why me?”
“I beg your pardon?” He set down his glass on a glasstopped table.
“Why me? You can afford the best private investigators in this country and in our neighbouring republic. Why do you want me looking into this? Because of our chance meeting earlier?”
“You know that’s not true,” he said. “I told the police exactly what happened. I might like you to protect me, but not from anything that happened tonight at the Stephenson House.”
“How do I know what you told them?” I said.
“You don’t know any more than I know what you said. There’s no advantage to either of us, either way. In fact, it was you in the curtains, remember. You need me more than I need you if it comes to that. What if I said you were covered in blood, or that you had a desperate look in your eyes. No, Mr. Cooperman, I’m not trying to buy from you anything more than Kiriakis was. I want the same information.”
“A Toronto outfit could have six men on this by morning.”
“I know something of your reputation, you know. I do have connections in Grantham and I have done my homework.” I shrugged. What could I say. And he’d got me for the same money I was getting working for Pambos. Only Jonah Abraham hadn’t helped me unpack all my earthly possessions and set my new home in order. I gave Pambos a bargain. Abraham was Mister Big Bucks. I kept my mouth shut. I’d wanted to leave Pambos out of it. I felt bad about him getting killed. Giving Abraham a cut rate made me feel better about that, I guess.
“You know, Mr. Cooperman, I could have dozens of Lambs and Milnes and Roberts in my cellar and no one would be the wiser.”
“So, you hire me to take the heat off. That makes sense.”
“What heat?” His voice broke a little around the edges. I was hoping he was going to do a retake, but he went on instead. “Paddy Miles? Tallon’s brother? Believe me, there is no heat.”
“You’re forgetting tonight.”
“Yes.” He rolled the glass between his palms and thought about that new element in the equation. He went on after a moment. “Whatever idiot it was who killed Kiriakis has definitely raised the temperature. But, I think I’m out of scorching distance. His death was very likely unconnected with this picture list. That only happens in books and moving pictures. But it means that the police will be paying attention to you and your movements from now on. I caution you to be careful.”
“Did Kiriakis approach you about the list directly?”
“He telephoned. Said he was making inquiries. Very much in the manner you telephoned me.”
“Kiriakis said that you were in the hotel the night the list went missing. Did you even see it?”
“No. But I believe Kiriakis. He had the little man’s pathetic desire to be liked. He was trying to be useful. If he had been able to unearth any, all, or some of the missing paintings, George, Arthur Tallon’s brother, would have given him the pick of the recovered canvases. Arthur specialized in Lambs. That’s what Kiriakis was out for. A free Lamb for his tiny collection. What a pity.”
“The Lambs aren’t wagging their tails behind them.”
“No, indeed. At least not as far as we know.”
“Are you suggesting that the lost Lambs have returned to the fold and we have been allowed to think they’re still missing?”
“It’s a possibility isn’t it? As long as everybody’s under suspicion, we might as well make sure we mean everybody.”
“Paddy Miles, George Tallon and all the heirs. Did you know that Peter MacCulloch was a cousin? He might have reason to think he’ll get something from the estate. He certainly has pictures belonging to Tallon’s estate that he won’t return unless forced to. The same may be said of Alex Favell.”
“Alex Favell is one of those people I was born never to understand. He has a way of bringing out the primitive instincts. I don’t trust him and I dislike him. I don’t know which came first.”
“Speaking of the estate, as we were, how well do you know George Tallon?”
“George is in charge of the Niagara region for Windermere’s largest competitor, Consolidated Calvin. We know one another. I suppose our rivalry has led to a friendship of a kind. Why do you ask?”
“Could you get him to give me permission to look through his brother’s medical records at the General? You need permission of the next of kin.”
“May I ask why?” Jonah was looking at me with a peculiar expression on his face. Maybe he was thinking that he should have brought in a Toronto firm after all. And I wasn’t even sure why I was asking. I only knew that the medical alert bracelet I took from the spilled coffee on Pambos’s desk was a problem. I didn’t know what kind of problem, but it existed and it wouldn’t let me sleep at night until I knew more about Tallon’s illness and death.
“I don’t think I can answer you, but I think it might be important. Can you get it?”
“I think so. I’ll let you know.”
Jonah Abraham’s way of winding up a conversation, I discovered, was to walk his guest around to the hall and face him towards the front door. It was subtly handled. There was no hint that the conversation was ending, not a silence that passed between us or a strained expression. But suddenly, he was opening the door for me and instructing me to keep in touch with him directly. He’d left instructions for me to be put through to him night and day. But I was cautioned by his tone that it had better be important when I called. I said good-night and stood sniffing in the paper mill on the night air. In less than three or four seconds, Vince’s pals were back with the car. Vince got out of the front seat and handed me an envelope. “Mr. Abraham wants you to have this,” he said. I looked long enough to see my name written correctly in ink on the front, before putting it into my inside breast pocket.
I enjoyed the silent running of the big car’s motor all the way down the escarpment and through town. When it stopped in front of my place, the door was opened for me; I sat still until it was. I was just testing. Tacos Heaven had closed its doors for the night. The street was quiet. I couldn’t even hear the big car sliding off into the night as I rattled my keys to open the outside door.
TWELVE
“Mr. Cooperman? Hello?” It wasn’t a dream, although it was a voice from my dream. I steadied the instrument under my chin and propped it with my pillow. I had been wind-surfing through the Amazon, I think it was, with Anna Abraham watching from the shore. Her father, mounted on an unlikely piranha, came in hot pursuit. And now he’d caught up to me by telephone.
“Good-morning,” he said in a voice that smelled of aftershave and a good breakfast. “I hope you were able to catch up on the sleep our discussion deprived you of. It’s nearly ten o’clock.” I checked my watch and he was right. The ruby digits told the truth: nine-fifty-seven.
“I did all right. What’s the trouble?” I thought there had to be trouble. Part of it was my dream, the rest was simple deduction: what would he be telephoning me for, if it wasn’t because something had fallen apart since our midnight conversation.
“My daughter Anna, the one you met, she went out again last night and didn’t come home. Is she with you by any chance?”
“Look, Mr. Abraham, that’s very flattering, but it’s highly unlikely that your daughter would end up in my place above Tacos Heaven. I hope you have other guesses.” I pulled my legs out from under the blankets and placed the sole of each foot into the deep pile of my new carpet. I can’t describe the luxury of that sensation after all those years of cold City House linoleum.
I felt tension on the other end of the line and the frustration it produced began to point at me. “I consider that it goes without saying, Mr. Cooperman, that you’ll always be straight with me?”
“As a flagpole, Mr. Abraham. But as to the whereabouts of your girl, I haven’t a fingerprint to go by. I’m looking for a list, anyway. Remember? Does she often take off like that without leaving word?”
“I had the idea you were on her mind when I went up to bed. She asked me as many questions as you did. Only hers were about you.”
“Sorry I can’t help. I’ll keep an eye peeled.”
“Keep both of them peeled and call me if you see anything.”
“Yahzir, I’ll do that.” Abraham hung up, I did the same.
I got up and brewed some instant coffee. I began a list of things to buy for future breakfasts, things like butter and jam and orange juice. Under orange juice I wrote “Anna.” I don’t know why I did that. She wasn’t something I was shopping for. But I guess she was on my mind. I thought about her in the shower. What did she want to know about me for? Is she a little simple? Must be if her old man’s worried where she is. She didn’t end up here, so she was laying a false trail. So, she’s not so dumb after all. But why pick on me, I wondered, while I did my armpits for a second time.
