The Resurrection Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  The painting could not be seen at this stage, it was being stabilized by a sort of cardboard made by pasting first a layer of cotton, then layers of newspaper over its surface. Each layer had to dry overnight, then another would be pasted over it until a thickness of about a quarter of an inch had been achieved. Eventually Art Queppin, or more likely his as-yet-invisible assistant the dauber and chipper, working from the back, would scrape away the old wood down to the gesso ground on which the actual painting had been done. Then the new canvas would be applied and Bartolo Arbalest would collect another fee.

  At the moment, Queppin was engaged in the less heroic process of mixing tiny puddles of paint and applying them with finicky dabs to the freshly cleaned surface of what must have been a sadly flaked floral painting by one of the less distinguished members of the Dutch School. He didn’t mind a bit having company while he worked, he couldn’t have been more cordial. The problem was that he didn’t want to talk about improvements to his work space, he wanted to sing Max and Brooks all the verses of “Roll Me Over in the Clover.”

  It was no use. Try as they might, they could not shut their scatological serenader up long enough to get any sense out of him. The self-styled architects made play with their tapes and their pads until Queppin got to number eight and was knocking at the gate, then they thanked him for his splendid cooperation and went to find Marcus Nie.

  Nie did have a room to himself, as Goudge had mentioned, but it wasn’t much of one, just a walled-off slice of the laundry room. Despite the fact that the entire atelier was air-conditioned, no doubt as much for the artworks’ protection as for the artisans’ comfort, and that an exhaust fan was turned on in the one narrow, grated window, the air in here was flavored with fumes of turpentine, mineral spirits, denatured alcohol, and a few more exotic scents that Max didn’t even want to think about. Thymol, he deduced, and ether, and maybe even a dash of cyanide; chemicals to be used rarely and with utmost discretion.

  There was a long, shallow sink on the wall under the window that had the fan in it. This would be where the trickier processes were carried out. The restorations they were doing here might not be precisely museum quality, but then most of the pieces Arbalest’s elves were working on wouldn’t be up to museum standards, either. Not that there wasn’t a lot of stuff in museums that Max Bittersohn himself wouldn’t have given house room to; and furthermore, much of the restoring that had been done by alleged experts over the centuries ought better to have been classed as vandalism. As far as Max could see, Bartolo’s artisans were turning out work that was as good as most and a damned sight better than some he’d run into. He turned his attention away from technique and toward the technician.

  Marcus Nie would never be hanged for his beauty. His head was shaped much like an old-time cheese box, long and angular, covered with yellowish skin that sagged down in folds like an elderly bloodhound’s. The hair on top was fair, sparse, and fine, plastered down with some kind of goo to let the yellow scalp shine through, meandering down along the sides of his face in the shape that Sarah’s grandfather would have called Dundreary weepers, stopping short of the chin as if Nie hadn’t felt it worthwhile to play out the farce to its end.

  Nie was probably as tall as Dubrec. It was hard to tell, the way he was hunched over a large drafting table with that voluminous smock hanging around him, but his arms were long and so were his badly stained hands. He had on a black-rubber photographer’s apron, transparent plastic cuffs were pulled up over his sleeves. He paid no attention to the two visitors but went on soaking bits of cotton in whatever solvent he was using—most likely a standard mixture of denatured alcohol and turpentine—and dabbing at the dirty, darkened shellac on the canvas before him.

  Sure enough, this was an animal painting: a head-on portrait of two remarkably stupid-looking sheep and a handsome goat with longish tawny golden fleece, great curly horns, and a disconcertingly knowing expression. If this was supposed to be one of those Victorian moral allegories, then Max Bittersohn’s money was on the goat.

  11

  GETTING MARCUS NIE TO take an interest in the possible refurbishment of his workroom was a lost cause from the start. Even Brooks, who could coax a friendly tweet out of a hermit thrush, wasn’t able to raise anything more than a curt, “It’s okay the way it is.”

  He and Max poked around a while, dodging piles of stretchers and plywood sandwiches that lay on the concrete floor, held down by concrete blocks and concealing bulged canvases that were being flattened out by this simple process for cleaning and restretching. Sure at last that Nie wasn’t going to open up, they called it quits and went looking for the one member of the household on whom they hadn’t yet laid eyes.

  They found her in the kitchen with a half-peeled onion in her hand and tears on her cheek. The mound on the chopping board gave out a pretty strong hint about the evening’s menu.

  “Onion soup tonight, eh?” chirped Brooks. “You must be Katya. Our friend Lydia Ouspenska told us about you.”

  Katya was obviously pleased to be noticed, but disturbed by two strange men roaming loose in the house. “Mr. Arbalest not like—”

  “Mr. Arbalest knows we’re here, don’t worry about that. He wants us to make plans for remodeling the kitchen. How would you like some nice cabinets where you can store things out of the way and not be having to dust them all the time?”

  This room had surely not been the original kitchen. It must have been installed sometime in the 1930s when the original huge basement kitchen and scullery, geared to a way of life that had depended largely on cheap immigrant servants, had become impractical and been phased out of the household’s operations. The one in which Katya was peeling her onions was also long overdue for an updating; if Arbalest was such an ardent amateur chef, why hadn’t he already done something about it?

  Money, most likely. Having to change his base of operations couldn’t have been cheap. Cross-country moving would have been hellishly expensive even if he’d driven himself in a rented truck. Setting up housekeeping in Boston, along with providing board, room, and salaries for his strangely assorted household, must be making a big dent every month in however much income the Resurrection Man was able to generate and collect.

  Furbishing up the house might have called for more flair than cash. Some of the furniture had probably come with the place. Arbalest would have known how to collect more at bargain prices, his artisans could have spruced it up for him. They could even have helped with painting and papering, though that would be like using racehorses to pull a plow. Maybe he’d just decided to stick with what was already here and screw in weaker light bulbs; that entrance hall had been pretty crepuscular and the shades in the drawing room had been most of the way down. His wood-paneled office with its wall of bookshelves would have needed nothing more than a rub-up with butcher’s wax to look opulent, no wonder Arbalest had chosen to conduct his interview there.

  But kitchen remodeling would have required a good deal more than flair. Cabinets, stoves, sinks, refrigerators, and dishwashers didn’t come cheap, and what would have been the point in spending cold cash on a room that nobody but himself and a none-too-bright maid of all work would be spending any time in? Much cheaper for Arbalest to extol his kitchen’s period charm and proclaim in loud and plummy tones what a crime against aesthetics it would be to change one priceless inch of this deliciously camp survival from the Art Deco period.

  He might even be right. Sarah had taken on in a similar vein when Max had tried to get her to swap the ancestral potato masher for a food processor; although her arguments had been more along the lines of Yankee skepticism as to whether newer was in fact better and, if it wasn’t broke, why fix it?

  Time was beginning to press, they still had to talk to Arbalest again and it behooved them to be out of there before Lydia got back. Nevertheless, Max wasn’t quite ready to leave Katya alone with her onions. One of the kitchen’s few amenities was a large window that let in plenty of light and commanded a wide view of the
alley, not that there was much to see except back fences, trash bins, and cars squeezed into straight and narrow parking places.

  “Nice view,” he said. “You like looking out, Katya?”

  “Yiss.”

  “Do you ever see a man in a red suit doing his exercises out there?”

  “Yiss. Funny. Jump.”

  Max had envisioned Katya as short and chunky, and he’d been right. Her once-blonde hair was pulled back into a skimpy knot with straggling ends, she had on a green wash-and-wear uniform and white nurses’ shoes. It was a trifle startling to watch her lay aside a partially denuded onion and start bouncing up and down, clapping her hands over her head even though she was still holding the paring knife, laughing like a child.

  After a few bounces, she stopped short, wiped the grin off her face, and looked around for her onion. Max presented it to her with a courtly bow.

  “Very nice, Katya. Do you see the man often?”

  “No. Only sometimes. Too bad.”

  “Mr. Arbalest comes in here and helps you with the cooking, doesn’t he?”

  “He cooks. I only good for peel and boil water.”

  “Then Mr. Arbalest must be in the kitchen a good deal of the time. Does he ever watch the man in the red suit do his exercises?”

  “Yiss. Not like.”

  “Why not?”

  Katya’s only answer was a spreading of the hands and a hunching of the shoulders. She turned back to her chopping board and picked up yet another onion, it was time to leave her to complete her aromatic chore.

  As they went looking for Arbalest’s office, Max remarked, “I suppose you noticed the grille on the window?”

  “Yes,” Brooks replied, “very interesting. The one in Bartolo’s office also unlatches from the inside. Want me to nip into the drawing room and check it out too?”

  “Why don’t we just ask Arbalest?”

  “By all means ask me anything you like.”

  The man of the house must have overheard, he came out through an open door just ahead of them. They looked in and saw a dining room glorious with damask, china, silver, and crystal; Arbalest had evidently been setting the table. It was hard to picture Nie or Laer at ease in so resplendent an ambience, Max wondered if they changed into fresh smocks for dinner. Of course it would be more medieval to come to the table dirty. Max was as well pleased he and Brooks wouldn’t be staying to share the meal.

  “I suppose you want to talk to me,” Arbalest was saying a bit fretfully. “Shall we go into my office?”

  “Just for a minute, if you can spare the time,” said Max. “I think your maid’s got the onions all chopped.”

  “You’ve been talking to Katya, then?”

  “We’ve been talking to everybody, but they weren’t talking back much. Did you pick your artisans for their lack of conversation?”

  “Oh, they chat freely enough when they’re not working. Most of them, anyway. I suppose Queppin sang for you?”

  “If that’s what it was. Tell us something, Mr. Arbalest. We notice you have grilles on all your windows. Do they come open from the inside?”

  “Yes, certainly, I’d be terrified if they didn’t. What if there was a fire? It’s too appalling to think of anyone’s being locked in. I’m not running a jail here, you, know, I’m just trying to protect my clients’ valuable possessions.”

  “And your artisans?”

  “Naturally. They’re fully aware of our need to take proper precautions; I made sure they understood the security rules before they moved in, and would be willing to cooperate. Anybody who wasn’t willing didn’t get hired, it’s that simple.”

  “Then in fact everybody’s free to come and go as they please?”

  “Within reason. Naturally I expect my artisans to work during business hours and to return at a reasonable hour if they go out in the evenings, simply because nobody wants to get up in the middle of the night to let them in.”

  “They don’t have door keys?”

  “What would be the good? There’d still be the chains to release, and there’s no way to do that from outside unless one’s remembered to take along a hacksaw. These are simply the normal precautions any householder living in a big city has to take nowadays, Mr. Bittersohn, as you surely realize.”

  “You don’t have an alarm system?”

  “No. They cost too much to install and there’s always the chance of setting them off when you don’t mean to. I believe our present security system to be quite adequate, and so does Mr. Goudge.”

  “He ought to know. You say he always trails any member of your guild who leaves the house.”

  “Only for their own protection, Mr. Bittersohn.”

  “I understand that. But what if two of them go in opposite directions at the same time, or Goudge has to drive you out on a call?”

  “I drove myself for a good many years, I expect I could do it again if I had to. But that’s a good question. So far, the problem hasn’t come up. Our people are so comfortable here that they just don’t want to go anywhere, it seems. Of course we haven’t been together all that long; they may start to get a bit restless after a while. Madame Ouspenska did yesterday, as you saw, but that was no problem. I simply invented a little errand for her to do, she had her outing and was back in good time. I suppose if everyone did start rushing off in all directions, we’d just have to find Mr. Goudge some assistance. I don’t suppose you and Brooks—”

  “Not in our line, I’m afraid. Goudge must know somebody.”

  “I suppose so.” Arbalest grimaced. “More money going out, my overhead is frightful. But our artisans are all people of mature years, as you’ve seen for yourself. Maturity was one of the things I looked for. Along with superior skills, of course. I sometimes think I must be an obtuse man in some respects, but I do try to learn from experience. I’m confident that this arrangement will work.”

  The mask of calm urbanity was slipping. “It has to work. I can’t fail again. Brooks, you’re my friend. For God’s sake, help me!”

  The telephone on Arbalest’s desk emitted a genteel buzz. He swallowed once, composed his features, and picked up the handset. “Hello? Yes, Goudge. No, just the heavy cream. Thank you. Then we’ll see you shortly.”

  He turned back to his visitors, his expression bland, his voice steady. “Goudge was phoning from the car. He’s about to do a small errand, then he and Madame Ouspenska will be coming back to the house. Unless they get stuck in traffic, they should be here in ten minutes or so. Perhaps you gentlemen would prefer—”

  “We would,” Brooks assured him. “Nice to see you again, Bartolo, we’ll be in touch.”

  Max picked up his cane and started to get up. “One quick question, Mr. Arbalest. Why don’t you like that man in the red suit?”

  Arbalest was taken aback. “What man?”

  “Your neighbor who does exercises in the alley. Katya says you don’t like him.”

  “Katya. I’m sorry, I ought to have explained about Katya. She’s a dear, sweet soul and a capable worker within her sphere of comprehension. Like myself, however, she has her limitations. Her mental age, as far as I’ve been able to figure out, is about six and a half; her life is one long fairy tale. Or else she needs glasses, I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps I ought to have Goudge take her to get her eyes tested. I do thank you most profoundly for coming, gentlemen. Please let me know if Mrs. Percy Kelling gets her girl with parrot back, it’s really quite a nice little primitive.”

  Polite as he was, Arbalest couldn’t get rid of his visitors fast enough. They’d barely got through the door before they heard him locking it behind them.

  “Well,” said Brooks as they reached the sidewalk, “that was an interesting visit. What did you make of it?”

  “For one thing, that Arbalest must be every bit as obtuse as he thinks he is if he honestly believes his workmen don’t come and go as they please,” Max answered. “Those first-floor windows can’t be more than eight feet from the ground; Nie and Dubrec
are both tall and Laer’s powerful. Queppin might have a little trouble getting in and out if he’s as fat and flabby as he looks in that goofy smock. Unless he keeps a collapsible ladder under his bed.”

  “As well he might,” Brooks agreed. “It further occurs to me that a craftsman as good as Dubrec ought to be a handy fellow with a picklock. I don’t say he’s made keys to fit all the locks and fixed the door chains so that they can easily be slipped apart from outside, but I do suggest that he probably could if he put his mind to it. I could, myself, though perhaps not so artistically.”

  Brooks was no braggart, he was merely stating a fact, and Max believed him. “I know you could, and so could Dubrec. If not for money, then just for fun, like Wouter Tolbathy.”

  The late Wouter Tolbathy had been a man of uncanny technical abilities, and even uncannier notions of how best to use them. He’d been a great friend of Sarah’s Uncle Jem. Max had never met Wouter alive but had been forced on two occasions to cope with the horrible consequences of his merry pranks. Max wished he hadn’t thought of Wouter Tolbathy. Despite the heat that had been building up in the pavement all day, he could feel his blood running cold.

  “For God’s sake, Brooks, tell me I’m wrong.”

  “We can but hope, Max. The world’s a frightening enough place these days without another Wouter Tolbathy running loose in it. You mentioned Queppin; is he the jovial Falstaffian egoist he lets on to be, or was it just that he knew who you were and was afraid to talk?”

  “I wondered that, myself. It could have been you he recognized. It could also be that Queppin’s mother taught him not to talk to strangers, or else that he’s just an arrogant bastard.”

  “Oh, he’s certainly an arrogant bastard.” Brooks paused to scrutinize a foraging sparrow, shrugged, and walked on. “The question is whether he’s something more than that.”