by Howard Mason
Nobby and I left the day after I’d seen her off for Paris. We got back in time for Ascot, and once the race was over, I got to work on my maiden speech for the Lords, ready for the next sitting. It was about the disgraceful state of British racing, and it was very well attended; Nobby wrote it up in a special article for the Bookmaker’s World. I had a letter from Sophia last week, congratulating me on it. She seemed to be liking it in Paris, and sounded quite happy. I don’t think I shall leave her there very long, though; I miss her, somehow. Besides, I could use some of that Stonybridge money. I still haven’t paid that tailor’s bill, and I need some new suits.
RECLINING FIGURE, by Marco Page
Copyright © 1951 by Marco Page.
Introduction
The locale of Reclining Figure is California, particularly the exotic home of Lucas Edgerton, arbitrary and capricious eccentric, whose fabulous art collection was begun when Cézannes were a dime a dozen. To sell some paintings for tax purposes he has imported Ellis Blaise, young New York dealer. Thefts from the collection, the sensational forgery of a priceless Renoir and the puzzling murder of Simon Edgerton, Lucas’ son, force Blaise into a perilous investigation involving:
Miriam Wayne, curator of Edgerton’s collection, shrewd, handsome, with shadowy connections to the murdered man and others.
Cass Edgerton, Lucas’ niece, for whose sake Blaise comes on.
Paul Weldon, young painter with more money than he can account for.
Molly Dann, lusty model and Simon Edgerton’s ex-mistress.
Victor Grandi, mysterious technician of the collection.
Dr. Wesley Corum, critic and adviser to rich collectors.
Jonas Astorg, an important art dealer.
Hugh Norden, fly-by-night peddler of inconsequential art and occasional erotica.
Chapter 1
Approached from Los Angeles, a level, straight stretch of road allowed the Ocean Inn to loom up gradually so that the arriving guest or passing tourist could study slowly, and in detail, the bewildering network of pointless setbacks and projections that twisted the exterior into a cubist nightmare. The structure had been condemned when three-quarters finished, then that portion had been rebuilt to comply with a slow succession of court orders while the remaining fourth proceeded according to the original plans. The finished product, even in a neighborhood with a restaurant built in the shape of a frying pan, was an outstanding eyesore.
The airport car deposited Ellis Blaise under the soaring porte-cochere and a doorman in an exotic Foreign Legion uniform took his bags into the lobby. This, and the other public rooms, were painted in stark, dramatic green, the color relieved at uncertain intervals by enormous white plaster brackets and ornaments.
Blaise registered at the desk and was taken upstairs by a loutish youth in the uniform of a St. Cyr cadet. The long narrow corridor was surgically bare and all the apartments and rooms had names stemming from the French or Italian Riviera. They passed “Antibes,” “Juan-le-Pins,” “Portofino,” and “Nice,” and then the boy ushered him into “St. Tropez.”
The living room was small and furnished mostly with glass and tubing. It looked as if someone had taken apart a large condenser and been called away to some other duty before it could be assembled again.
The bedroom, being entirely functional, was better. A king-size bed rose barely eight inches off the floor and one wall was a row of built-in cabinets. French doors opened to a balcony directly over the beach. When the bellboy was gone Blaise took off his coat and went out.
It was a bright, clear day, still unmarred by the downtown smog, and the sand looked clean and inviting. The hotel’s private beach was deserted, except for a few attendants in the tented bar and adjoining cabanas, but a few early pilgrims were already on the public strand. A battered refreshment stand was still boarded up at this hour, but the projecting counter was being improvised as a ballet bar for two stunning girls who were limbering already lithe and supple bodies.
Blaise watched the girls for a moment, then turned his face up to the early sun. A nearby voice said, “Good morning, Ellis.”
Blaise turned left slowly, reluctantly giving up the warm sun. A neat, middle-aged man was watching from the next-door balcony. He recognized Jonas Astorg, an art dealer from New York.
“Lovely girls,” said Astorg, waving his heavy hand in the direction of the public beach. “Something in the air, or perhaps the abundance of orange juice, tends to give the Southern California girls uniformly lovely legs, fine bodies and a clear skin.” Regretfully, he added, “It also makes them grow too tall for an undersized European like myself.”
“Tough luck,” said Blaise.
Astorg extended a gold cigarette case over the waist-high barrier between the terraces. Blaise took one, then held a match to Astorg’s cigarette and his own.
“Lucas Edgerton sent for you?” asked Astorg.
Blaise looked at him speculatively. “You wouldn’t say that unless you knew.”
Astorg chuckled. “Why be reticent and uncommunicative? What I know I will gladly tell you.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you know why Edgerton sent for you?”
Blaise shook his head. “He doesn’t tell me much.”
“He’s going to sell some paintings.”
“Is that why you followed me out here?” asked Blaise.
Astorg looked pained. “My dear boy. I arrived twenty-four hours before you did. I hardly think that can be called following.”
“You know what I mean,” said Blaise. “You’re here in this hotel, next door. Is that an accident?”
Astorg smiled. “I might say it was if I thought you would believe me. No, Ellis, it is not an accident.” He looked wistfully at the open door of Blaise’s bedroom. “Could we not talk more comfortably inside?”
“I’m expecting a call.”
Astorg nodded. “Very well. Edgerton plans to sell some paintings. He’s worried about cash for inheritance taxes. I have some fine customers. Rich, sound collectors. Let’s work together.” He shrugged and made an artless gesture with his hands. “There—is that so complicated?”
“You say work together,” repeated Blaise. “Do we work together for ourselves, or for Edgerton?”
Astorg leaned over his balcony, selected a spot on the beach below and let the cigarette fall. “A man like Lucas Edgerton pays a hundred dollars for a Cezanne. That’s fine. It shows early taste, a pioneering instinct, a nice appreciation of obscure, difficult tendencies in art. Let’s say that he gets thirty thousand for the painting when he sells it. That’s a wonderful profit. He deserves it, mind you…”
“Especially if the painting is worth fifty or sixty thousand,” said Blaise.
“I doubt if Edgerton has current values at his fingertips,” said Astorg smoothly.
“Isn’t that why he’s hiring me?”
“You talk like a Boy Scout,” said Astorg, for the first time betraying any impatience. “This is a chance you may never get again. What do you want to make—ten percent?”
Blaise laughed. “I might take five.” Then he heard the telephone in the bedroom of St. Tropez. “Excuse me, will you, Jonas?”
It took a few rings before Blaise found the telephone, which he located in a closed cupboard beside the bed.
“Mr. Blaise?” It was a girl’s voice, cool and pleasant. “This is Miriam Wayne—Mr. Edgerton’s secretary.”
Blaise knew the name from correspondence. They passed over the amenities of his trip and his comfort in the hotel. Then Miss Wayne said, “Mr. Edgerton would like to see you this morning.” Her voice was crisp and efficient now. “Please follow these instructions.”
Blaise said, “I’m ready.”
“Leave the hotel in just fifteen minutes—that will be at 11:38 exactly. Walk north two blocks on the highway to Emerald Lane. Turn into the Lane, w
alk slowly to the boulevard. A car will pick you up in the Lane. Is that quite clear?”
Blaise said, “Perfectly.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Are we robbing a bank, Miss Wayne, or holding up a gas station?”
Miss Wayne started to say something, but a harsh voice came blaring in. “God damn it, Blaise, follow orders. Do as you’re told!” There was a metallic crash as the extension phone was slammed into its cradle, then a moment of silence.
“Is that quite clear, Mr. Blaise?” asked Miss Wayne sweetly.
“I’ll be there,” Blaise told her, and hung up. He was annoyed with himself for not realizing that the old nut would be listening in. He had known Lucas Edgerton for two years and the relationship had begun and continued in this same furtive, secretive manner, never free from complicated rendezvous and schoolboy codes. He looked at his watch. Just eleven and a half minutes until 11:38. As he put on his coat he was annoyed again to find himself thinking, like Edgerton, in split seconds and fractions.
Chapter 2
It had begun nearly two years before in Ellis Blaise’s tiny second-floor gallery in New York. The holidays were approaching and in the “Main Hall,” a cramped 12 x 20, Blaise was showing a variety of French paintings, water colors, drawings, prints and etchings priced at $500 and less in the hope of catching some Yuletide gift business. In his own office, an even smaller room, he was exhibiting eight primitive paintings of city scenes by Harris Little, a Negro clerk in the Department of Sanitation, who was Blaise’s own discovery. His one-man show of Little’s paintings earlier that year had been the first exhibition of the painter’s work, but the reviews were patronizing and the patronage dismal. Blaise was reluctant to take down the show, even when attendance fell off to zero, and the paintings now hung in the office, a vaguely hopeful, mildly defiant gesture.
It was 2:30 now on this cold, raw December afternoon. Some kids prematurely released from school had tracked up the floor in the morning, and lunch time brought the usual assortment of browsers. Blaise was sprawled on the couch in his office with a pile of catalogues when he heard the gallery door open and close. He didn’t see anyone at once (the gallery door was out of his line of vision) so he knew the visitor was working his or her way along the right-hand wall. He put down his catalogues, sat up on the couch and lit a cigarette. Then he saw the prospect and at first glance he realized the gallery had rarely sheltered a more unpromising visitor. He saw a man roughly past middle-age whose exact proportions could only be guessed because he was wearing a tight flannel jacket over several sweaters, the bottoms and collars of which made a haphazard fringe at his waist and throat. A gray flannel shirt, the collar askew, was anchored by a brown bow tie apparently knotted with reckless abandon on that or some other morning. The trousers were also gray flannel, but of a different shade, and the shoes, deplorably muddy, were or had been gray suede. The whole effect—reminiscent of a second-class Bowery flophouse—was topped by a thick, wet strand of stubby, wiry gray hair.
The visitor passed his door, continuing on out of sight along the left-hand wall. Blaise’s first impression, that it was a panhandler, he discarded at the succession of snorts that floated back to him as his collection was examined. He got up and went into the doorway. The visitor, with an expression of acute pain, was standing before a small Pascin water color.
“Anything I can do for you?” asked Blaise politely.
The visitor turned. “Yes. You can set fire to all this crap.”
Blaise peered uncertainly at the old man.
“This junk,” continued the visitor, waving a hand around the four walls, “is what gives modern painting a bad name.”
“If you’re interested in bad names,” said Blaise coldly, “just stick around. I’m warming one up for you.” The visitor eyed him curiously, with a partial smile. “What did you expect to find here, one flight up over a chain store—Vermeers?” He turned back into the office. Over his shoulder, he added, “Beat it. Try the Modern Museum—they like eccentrics.”
He sat down on the couch again and took another cigarette. He turned to the desk for matches, and when he swung around again the old man was in the doorway peering in. Ignoring Blaise, he came closer to the big Harris Little that hung just inside the door. It was a glaring study of an East River dock, lighted by harsh, naked overhead lamps. It was one of Blaise’s favorites.
“What’s this?” asked the visitor.
“Rembrandt,” said Blaise, puffing at his cigarette. “Very rare. One of the few paintings he did of New York.”
The visitor turned to look at him. “You’re a snotty boy,” he said. “Are you generally this rough on customers?”
“Customer?” repeated Blaise. “What makes you think you’re a customer?”
“This.” Turning back to the painting the old man lifted it from the hook and down to the floor. Then moving swiftly around the room he did the same with all eight paintings. Blaise watched open-mouthed as he stacked them near the door. When he straightened up from the last move he said briefly. “My name is Lucas Edgerton. How much?”
“Edgerton!” Blaise nodded ruefully. “I suppose I should have guessed.”
“How much?” insisted Edgerton.
“They’re by Harris Little. He’s unknown. This was his first show and…”
“What the hell do I care if it was his first show. I don’t go by shows. How much?”
“If you take the lot, how about $250 each?” Blaise put this forward tentatively but Edgerton only nodded, took a frayed, folded check from his pants pocket and bent over the desk to fill it in with Blaise’s pen. “My office will call to arrange about shipment,” he said, while he filled in the check. His voice was formal and distant now. He left the check lying on the desk and straightened up.
Blaise said, “I’m sorry I didn’t roll down the red carpet for you, Mr. Edgerton.”
“You’re doing fine,” Edgerton told him. “Don’t crowd your luck, son.” He went out into the other gallery and paused for one last look around. “What I said still goes,” he shouted. “Set fire to this crap.”
Blaise was waving the check to dry it. “Yes, sir, Mr. Edgerton. Anything you say, Mr. Edgerton. Thank you, Mr. Edgerton, sir.”
The old man looked back with a glare that lightened suddenly to a smile, then disappeared into the narrow hall.
And that was the start of it. Blaise immediately assembled another group of paintings by Harris Little and wrote to Edgerton asking for some critical comment for the catalogue. The instant reply was an obscene, sulphurous refusal, followed in a day or two by a letter threatening suit if Edgerton’s name was so much as mentioned. In the next mail came a glowing eight-page panegyric to be used as an introduction to the catalogue and the respectful suggestion that Blaise release all or part of it to the press before the opening to drum up early interest.
The entire show, twenty paintings and fifteen drawings, was sold on the opening day. Edgerton made an awesome personal appearance, attracting much more attention than either Blaise or the painter, and spent most of the day cursing Blaise for what he considered the inept way the show was hung.
Whatever they thought of Harris Little (and Blaise still found it hard to tell) collectors could not ignore Lucas Edgerton’s opinion on anything connected with modern art. His own collection had assumed legendary proportions, even more so because the bulk of it had been acquired when the great names in modern painting were still obscure and unheralded. The exact extent of his hoard was largely a mystery but the few available clues indicated vast quantity and extraordinary quality. He was rumored to have more than a hundred Cézannes, as many Renoirs, great vaults and bins stuffed with masterpieces by Seurat, Degas, Manet, Pissarro, Sisley, and all the Impressionist masters. His accumulation of twentieth-century artists was on the same prodigious scale.
Edgerton never allowed the public to see his treasures, never loaned them to museums, refused i
nformation about them to even the most reputable curators, critics and historians. He was, however, the author of several books on modern painting, largely savage attacks on every aspect of taste but his own, and these were illustrated with paintings from the Edgerton Collection. They were stunning examples, and each publication brought a flood of letters from collectors and scholars pleading for a chance to see the paintings. In all but a few cases—chosen unpredictably, as was typical of Edgerton—the supplicant was turned away. If the writer was an obscure person he was let off with a polite refusal written and signed by a secretary, but if it was a well-known collector or critic, or a celebrity in any field, Edgerton himself would write a personal, savagely insulting reply. None but the very most thick-skinned ever wrote twice. His favor, like his rage, was bestowed capriciously, but even his worst enemies grudgingly conceded his knowledge and his taste.
After the second Harris Little exhibition, with the obvious and precious mark of favor contained in Edgerton’s preface to the catalogue, Blaise became known as Edgerton’s dealer. The relationship had been profitable and rewarding, but also at times so stormy that Blaise found himself thinking wistfully of quieter days in the Army. Under the successive layers of ego, selfishness, arrogance and greed that coated his great client’s personality, however, there was a passionate love of art, a real sense of the quality in painting, no matter what name was signed to the canvas. Obscenely, sometimes comically intolerant, Edgerton’s venom might be directed at every color and creed in turn or at once, but in art his taste knew no boundary. Also, even at his maniacal, infuriating worst, Edgerton maintained some sixth sense that told him uncannily when he had driven any associate to the quitting point, and he was then capable of rare charm, generosity and consideration.
