The Resurrection Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “A simple yes would have been sufficient, Mr. Arbalest. You could hardly have expected not to be an object of interest to the cops, considering your profession and your track record on calamities. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I think we should all know where we’re coming from. Any art restorer, especially one with your abilities and connections, must have had a few offers. You know what goes on in the art underworld, you couldn’t possibly not know. Right, Brooks?”

  “Oh yes. I was even approached a few times myself, back when I was odd-job man at the Wilkins Museum.”

  “Right, and I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, mostly with regard to insurance fraud,” said Max. “Theoretically, it’s possible any of us might have accepted, if the price was right and we were that sort of people. Having refused the offers, we’ve all taken a certain amount of grief from people we’ve disappointed. Neither Brooks nor I has been set up for a murder charge, thank God, but you’ve been far more vulnerable, Arbalest, because you offer a wide scope of opportunities and you’re not accustomed to dealing with crooks. Any cop worth his salt would have had to ask himself whether your employees’ deaths had been in fact legitimate accidents, whether they’d been rubbed out as a result of their own criminal activities, or whether you’d either killed them or had them killed because they’d found out things about your operation you didn’t want them to know. The possibility that your employees were being killed simply to get back at you would have had to be a poor fourth on anybody’s list. Except maybe your own. Right, Mr. Arbalest?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry I was short with you, Mr. Bittersohn, naturally the subject is a tender one with me. It’s unfortunately true that I’ve had illicit propositions made to me from time to time. It’s equally true that I’ve turned them all down. I’ve always tried to be tactful about refusing, so as not to create ill feeling, but I suppose I have to grant the hypothesis that some disappointed client may have chosen to revenge himself—or herself I should add, since not all women are above rubies, sad to say—in this dreadfully circumlocutious way.”

  Arbalest picked up a niello-ornamented silver paper knife, scowled at its sharpness, and put it down. “I’ve never felt personally threatened, oddly enough. Not that I’m trying to make myself out a hero, actually I’m a terrible coward. It’s the work that’s under attack, Mr. Bittersohn. That’s why my artisans and now my clients have been subjected to these outrages; there is some malignant agency that wants to prevent me from doing what I was set on this earth to do. I quite realize this sounds fanciful and high-flown, but my work is my life. To rescue from neglect and decay some once-beautiful work of art, to give it back to the world as a joy instead of a sad reminder of loveliness that once had been, that is my mission. Now you know why I call myself the Resurrection Man. You did say you wanted the truth.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Max was by no means sure he’d got it. A man who was his own best salesman mightn’t have too hard a time talking himself into being his own malignant force. Arbalest’s admitting them into the guild hall, or whatever he called it, didn’t necessarily constitute a proof of injured innocence. He could just as well have come to the office or offered to meet Max and Brooks somewhere on neutral ground. Having them here could be construed almost as a “see, I have nothing to hide” ploy. He’d no doubt had plenty of chances to practice on the cops.

  It was time for a reciprocal gesture, Max shoved out a pawn. “I suppose Goudge told you he called on us at the house night before last to explain why we should quit tailing Lydia Ouspenska.”

  A vigorous nod set the velvet beret flopping. “Yes, indeed. Madame Ouspenska is a very gifted lady. Mr. Goudge tells me she’s also an old friend of yours.”

  “She got poisoned at my wife’s dinner table once. Those things establish a bond, you know. We were all relieved to find out Lydia’s being so well taken care of here. I’d never seen her looking so healthy.”

  “How very kind of you to say so, Mr. Bittersohn. She’ll be sorry to have missed your visit, she’s out on assignment just now. A matter of a flaking halo.”

  Max obliged his host with the smile that Arbalest was clearly expecting. “Lydia told me she makes house calls on saints.”

  He thought Arbalest relaxed just a bit. “Oh, Madame Ouspenska—she’s asked us to drop the title—is a lady of many parts. She’s marvelous at church work, of which we get a good deal, heaven be praised. She’s also a positively inspired miniaturist, as you perhaps know.”

  “Byzantine icons?”

  “Oh yes, definitely. There’s simply nobody to touch Ouspenska on icons, though unfortunately we don’t have many of those coming through the atelier. But we do get an occasional illuminated manuscript, she’s a grand illuminator. In more ways than one, I may say, she positively lights up our lives with her never-failing joie de vivre. Really, it’s a privilege to have Madame Ouspenska in the guild.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Arbalest must have been pretty hard up for joie de vivre, Max thought. Much as he himself liked Lydia, he’d have been driven to howling frenzy in a matter of hours if he’d ever been stuck with her at close quarters. “Tell her we’re sorry to have missed her. I suppose she’s got Goudge waiting at the church now? He mentioned last night that he generally goes along when she’s on an outside job.”

  “Indeed he does, they have a most agreeable relationship. He’s inclined to be somewhat taciturn, you know, and she’s so charmingly effervescent. Entre nous, I suspect our Carnaby’s a trifle smitten.”

  Brooks chuckled. “From what I know of your Carnaby, not much will come of it.”

  “Oh, I do so hope you’re right. Such attachments never work, you know. Sooner or later the bloom rubs off the rose, then the sniping begins. Eventually there’s a major dustup and one of the pair storms off in a huff. Sometimes they both do. I couldn’t handle that. Not now, when I’ve struggled so hard to organize the guild and get everything working so well. At least I thought I had, until I got Mr. Bittersohn’s phone call.”

  Arbalest picked up the silver paper cutter again. For a second it looked as though the man might be going to stab its sharp point into his well-oiled leather desk top, but his nobler nature prevailed. “Well, gentlemen, do you have further questions or would you like to see the atelier? You’ll be our very first outside visitors, you know; I’m not quite sure how to introduce you.”

  “You’d better not be too obvious about who we are,” said Max. “How about if he’s Mr. Brooks and I’m Mr. Tickle? Brooks can be an artisan applying for a job and I’ll be the plumber looking for a leak.”

  In a sense Max was just that, but Arbalest shook his head. “Couldn’t you both be prospective members of the guild? You could even move in with us if you feel it’s necessary, though where we’d put you I’m sure I don’t know. All the bedrooms are in use and I can hardly ask any of the present occupants to double up. We really could use more space, but I don’t know where we’d get it.”

  “Then there’s your answer,” said Max. “Brooks can pose as an architect trying to figure out how to enlarge the house and I’ll be the building inspector telling him he can’t do it.”

  “Couldn’t you both be architects?” Arbalest was a little out of his depth with Max, as people often were.

  “Sure, why not? Come on, Brooks. Grab yourself a pencil and let’s tear the place apart.”

  10

  FASHIONS IN CITIES CHANGE. Boston’s Back Bay, created prosaically enough during the nineteenth century by dumping a great deal of soil on top of a great expanse of mudflats, had had its day of glory. In 1883, King’s Handbook of Boston said of “the grand Back Bay section,” that “these broad and handsome streets are lined with imposing and stately edifices, the architectural designs of which, in many cases, are most ambitious and elaborate.”

  Alas for stateliness, many of these ambitious and elaborate edifices have been chopped up into apartments and rooming houses or adapted to various other purpo
ses, some of which the illustrious architects of Grover Cleveland’s administration would have held in horror. Somehow or other, Bartolo Arbalest had got hold of a property that had remained pretty much as it had been built. Either he’d bought the house outright, though God only knew what it must have cost him, considering real-estate prices in the area, or else he’d found a landlord desperate enough for a paying tenant to let him do as he pleased.

  Perhaps Arbalest saw his atelier through the eyes of love, or maybe he thought smocks and berets made up for the overall air of bleakness and the unavoidable clutter on the long tables at which the artisans were working. Brooks, a man of many parts, all of them in excellent working order, saw at once what was wrong and how to fix it. The basement level, once the cozy domain of the cook and the servant’s hall, had been converted into a brightly lighted space about as cheery and inviting as a sardine cannery.

  “I think your problem here is less of space than of efficiency, Mr. Arbalest,” he said briskly. “These long tables and backless benches are no doubt picturesquely reminiscent of the Middle Ages, but they must be hellishly inconvenient and uncomfortable to work at. Furthermore, keeping all the supplies jumbled together on those big shelves at the back of the room means that everyone must have to keep hopping up and down to get what he needs. I’d strongly recommend dividing the room up into separate cubicles, each with sufficient work space, shelves, and cabinets to meet the artisan’s specific needs, not to mention a comfortable swivel chair on casters to keep him from breaking his back. You also ought to have individually arranged lighting instead of just those overhead fluorescents.”

  Brooks warmed to his new role. “This gentleman here on the end, for instance, obviously needs a sturdy turntable that could be raised and lowered with a foot pedal, leaving his hands free for his work. He also needs a rack for his chisels with an attached holder for his oilstone, a shaded drop light, and no doubt a few other things which I’d be glad to discuss with you, Mr.—”

  Arbalest picked up his cue. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Mr. Brooks, this is Mr. Laer, our specialist in wood carving. Mr. Brooks and his assistant, Mr.—ah—Tickle, are here to see what we can do about improving conditions in the atelier for your greater convenience. Please, everyone, express your feelings and ideas to these gentlemen freely, you know I’m always ready to go along with whatever is in your best interests. Mr. Brooks, why don’t I just introduce you and Mr. Tickle to our artisans and leave you to poke around all you like? I have some work to do upstairs, we can discuss your recommendations later on. Might we persuade you both to join us for dinner and one of our round-table discussions?”

  Brooks and Max exchanged glances. They hadn’t bargained for such an open-arms reception. All they’d need now would be Lydia bouncing back from the church, flinging herself with Slavic enthusiasm upon Max the beautiful detective and expressing loud hopes that he’d come for the purpose of investigating her personally and in detail.

  “Thank you,” said the beautiful detective, “but I have a previous commitment. I believe Mr. Brooks does also. Would it bother you, Mr. Laer, if I took a few measurements?”

  Mr. Laer said he didn’t care what they did so long as they didn’t mess around with his chisels. He went on with his work; Max and Brooks began doing what they’d ostensibly come for. Upstairs they’d hastily fitted themselves out with what architects’ props Arbalest could provide: a steel tape, a charming though anachronistic ivory slide rule, and a couple of yellow writing pads. They’d brought pencils of their own and plied them busily. Brooks, being Brooks, threw himself wholeheartedly into the job, jotting down notes and drawing precise little sketches. Max flapped around zipping the steel tape in and out and fiddling with the slide rule, covering his pad with figures that didn’t mean anything, trying not to look too knowledgeable about what was happening at the worktables.

  Max’s real interest was not in the studio but in the men working there. Goudge hadn’t said much about Laer except that he seemed to be one of the more normal members of the guild. Max wondered how Goudge defined normal. He himself would not have cared to be alone for long with the woodcarver and his chisels; there was a shade too much fury in the way that Laer attacked his work, too little genuine affability in his laconic replies to Brooks’s questions and suggestions. Max could see why the offspring of a man like this might prefer to conduct their paternal relationship by long-distance telephone.

  Max wondered whether Arbalest had picked his artisans for their appearance as well as their skills, Laer fitted his role so aptly. He was stockily built, of medium height, five foot eight in his thick-soled boots, as Max determined by adroit use of the steel tape. Probably he was a few years younger than his grizzled beard would suggest. When he pushed back his beret to scratch his head Max saw that he was bald, perhaps that was why he didn’t object to wearing the beret. His complexion was ruddy and weathered. Either Laer had worked outside a lot in his previous jobs or else he was the sort who went in for mountain climbing and camping outdoors in the wintertime. It seemed odd that a man of this type would choose to be cloistered with an overfed sybarite like Arbalest and spend his days in this stuffy basement where visitors were never allowed.

  Laer must be a strong man, it showed just in the way his stubby fingers grasped his chisels. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his smock to the elbows, his bare arms showed muscles and sinews more genuinely impressive than any professional weight lifter’s. His short, heavy-thighed legs supported a barrel-shaped torso that had no flabby bulges, his shoulders were massive from years of heavy lifting, his bull neck showed no sign of excess fat. A formidable man, Max decided.

  An expert craftsman, Max had no doubt about that. At the moment, Laer was working on a small carved-mahogany cabinet that had been damaged in a fire, creating a new door to replicate the charred and battered remains that lay on the table beside him. There was just barely enough left of the old door to show what the pattern must have been; Laer was working along without hesitation or slip, not using any sort of guidelines that Max could see, checking his work by an occasional glance at the blackened fragments that had survived the fire. Max thought he’d like to know more about Peter Laer but this wasn’t the time to get too personal. He added a few more bogus figures to the incoherencies on his pad and followed Brooks over to the next table.

  There was nothing of the outdoorsman over here. Jacques Dubrec, the odd-job man, was tall, pale, fiftyish, and slight, though a certain puffiness around the jawline led Max to suspect a modest potbelly under the loose-hanging smock. His beard was no more than a modest, carefully trimmed goatee, coal black on the edges, pure white down the middle like a bobolink’s back, or a baby skunk’s. His hands were long-fingered and deft, his scholarly stoop went well with his thick-lensed glasses. Nearsightedness must be an advantage in his profession.

  Max wondered whether Dubrec had been trained at a museum. The project he was working on would have daunted many experts, from the looks of the many fragments that had been carefully sorted out and prepared for resurrection. Before it got dropped or smashed, the piece had evidently been a porcelain ornament in the shape of a bird cage, bedizened with more flora and fauna than an Edwardian lady’s Sunday hat. Bavarian, Max judged, designed for and possibly by Mad King Ludwig. Just picking up the pieces would have been a major undertaking. Put together, the thing must stand almost two feet high.

  “I’ll bet you’re a whiz at jigsaw puzzles.”

  That was the kind of dumb remark the restorer was no doubt used to hearing from laymen. Dubrec didn’t answer but flashed Max a smile that would have been pleasanter if his teeth had been in better condition, and went on studying the shard he was holding and the assemblage he was about to stick it to. He had to be absolutely certain that he knew precisely where and how the two must fit together, but not let them touch for fear he might cause some infinitesimal speck of further damage to the fractured edges. Once Dubrec’s mind was firmly made up, he applied the thinnest possible line of epoxy glue, t
he colorless kind, to just the middle of the break. This would flow out toward the edges when the pieces were fitted together, making a perfect bond and adding no thickness that could cause problems as more bits were attached.

  Some of the ornamentation would be missing: petals gone from the roses, chips out of the birds’ beaks and feathers, nicks at joints where a perfect fit had not been possible. Dubrec would mix chalk with his epoxy, fill in the breaks, tint the filler to match perfectly with its surroundings.

  Arbalest must be charging a bundle for this job, but the effect would be worth the trouble and expense. By the time Dubrec got through, there wouldn’t be a crack or a chip visible to the eye of anyone except another Dubrec.

  The artisan hadn’t seemed to be minding the colleague who’d been bawling out what was probably a dirty ballad in Gaelic, Swahili, or possibly just heavily accented English ever since the visitors had arrived; but he did obviously find the strangers themselves disturbing. Brooks himself was too good a craftsman and Max too much an admirer of fine craftsmanship not to respect Dubrec’s need for concentration. They got out of his way and went over to placate the man who’d been so loudly courting their attention ever since they’d entered the atelier.

  Art Queppin was as fat, hairy, and red-faced as Carnaby Goudge had described him, maybe even more so. His beard was a great tangle of reddish fuzz. His beret was shoved to the back of his head, his smock open halfway down his hairy sweaty chest. At close range, his ballad turned out to be in an atrocious imitation of Scottish dialect and was about a bonnie wee lassie who never said no. Queppin appeared to be running something like an assembly line, his table was covered with paintings in various stages of being restored. One canvas was being relined, a wood panel was in the far more drastic process of having its painted surface completely detached from the rotted and worm-eaten wood and transferred to a sound new backing.