The First Mystery Novel

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The First Mystery Novel Page 22

by Howard Mason


  Chapter 3

  Blaise made his way along the highway, following orders to the letter, and turned into Emerald Lane on the dot. As he started toward the Boulevard a limousine driven by a chauffeur came in from the other end and slowed tentatively. He stopped and saw the driver lean across to roll down the window.

  “Mr. Blaise?” asked the driver, and when Blaise nodded he climbed out to open the door. Blaise settled himself in the back and the car headed swiftly into the ocean highway, turning north toward Santa Barbara. They covered ten or twelve miles in barely as many minutes, then turned off into a narrow road in which there were no signs of life at all. The car slowed and the driver sounded a blast on the horn. Then, on the left, Blaise saw high, spiked iron gates. There was a tanned, husky gateman and a tough-looking unpedigreed dog was yelping around him. The gateman touched his cap respectfully as the car rolled past him, then started closing the barrier.

  “Just like Fort Knox,” said Blaise.

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Mr. Edgerton thinks it scares off tourists. Matter of fact, that’s the only part of the place is fenced at all and anybody can walk right on up from the beach. But I guess Mr. Edgerton gets a kick out of seeing the guards and the dogs when he goes in and out.”

  The house, when it was finally visible around the bend in the driveway, was tremendous. The main building was modified Colonial, with massive columns running to the third floor and a one-story wing at the right was connected by a covered driveway. Some of the detail of the big house was repeated in the wing, but it was too long and too low to be completely harmonious.

  Blaise got out of the car without assistance and saw a girl coming toward him from the covered driveway between the two buildings. She was a handsome girl, about thirty, in a light simple suit.

  “I’m Miriam Wayne,” she said, extending her hand. “I hope our telephone conversation didn’t irritate you.”

  Blaise smiled. “I’ve worked for Mr. Edgerton for nearly two years.”

  “Then you know.”

  Blaise nodded. “Yes, I know. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he wanted me to swim to a buoy and rendezvous with a submarine.”

  She laughed, but only briefly. A window in the second-floor of the dwelling flew up with a bang, and Lucas Edgerton leaned perilously far out of it. His speech of welcome was characteristic.

  “God damn it, Blaise, what the hell do you think I brought you out here for? Stop rubbernecking and come on up here. You, Miriam, wait over in the library.”

  The window came down with a resounding thump and Edgerton disappeared in the curtained interior. Blaise looked at the secretary. There was a spot of color in her cheeks but she was well under control. “Sweet, isn’t he?” she said. “This way, Mr. Blaise.” She led him to the massive front door. “Upstairs, on the right.”

  Blaise went in, then stopped short. Correspondence, photographs, the books and the legends should have prepared him for his first glimpse of Edgerton’s pictures in bulk, but the impact was overpowering. The enormous hall was all but plastered with paintings, hung frame to frame and from the floor up. Moreover, there was no artistic chronology in the grouping, so that a massive cubist Picasso all but obliterated a delicate Manet; an enormous, vivid Matisse was in shocking contrast to the adjoining canvas, a sunny, precious Seurat. There were other incongruities and as Blaise started up the broad, winding stairs he saw that this area, too, was a jumble of paintings. Here some of the contrasts were even more disconcerting because there were superb classical paintings mixed in with the bold moderns. It was a riot of Bracque, Cezanne, Van Dyck, Roualt, El Greco, Pissarro, Renoir, and, halfway up, hung a good six feet above eye level so that it was almost impossible to see it at all, was a fabulous, tiny Vermeer. Blaise went up a few steps, then leaned back along the rail for a better view of this, and he was so engaged when Edgerton came into the upper hall.

  Blaise pushed himself upright hastily. “Sorry,” he said. “I resisted everything else, but that little Vermeer got me.”

  Unpredictably enough, Edgerton smiled. “It gets everybody. Some collection, ain’t it?”

  “Stunning. Why don’t you hang it so it makes some sense?”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Edgerton, still with his rare, impish grin, “and, frankly, I don’t give a hoot about anybody else.” He beckoned peremptorily. “Come on. You can take the grand tour later on.”

  He led the way into his own quarters, a large room with big, curtained windows, monastically furnished with a large, flat table covered with books and papers, a narrow bed against the wall and two modern chairs—one at the table, one for a guest. There were no paintings on the walls, but a few canvases were stacked in a corner, the painted surfaces turned to the wall.

  Edgerton closed the door, first putting his head out to look up and down the hall. He sat down at the table and waved Blaise into the chair on the other side. “Nice trip?” he asked grudgingly, as if the amenities hurt him.

  “Pretty good,” said Blaise. “I’m too big to be really comfortable on an overnight plane trip.”

  “Wouldn’t risk my neck in one for a million a minute,” said Edgerton. “God damn things are no good.”

  Blaise laughed. “That’s nice advertising. Don’t you still own most of the airline I came out on?”

  “Sure thing,” said Edgerton readily. “Owning an airline and riding an airplane, that’s two different things.” There was a pause as if Edgerton was having difficulty bringing the talk around to its point. Blaise knew him well enough to let him simmer until whatever he really wanted to say boiled over. “Everything all right at the hotel?” asked Edgerton.

  “Fine. It’s kind of an eyesore, though, isn’t it?”

  “Out here,” said Edgerton, “that’s a show place. Wait till you know the country. Every fairy with strength enough to lift a bolt of goods is a decorator. Some of them don’t know enough about a house to dig a hole for a privy, but they go right on decorating. I’ve seen places here that cost half a million, with living rooms the size of the Painted Desert”—he chuckled—“wouldn’t keep pigs in them.” Then his grin faded abruptly. “How’s business?”

  “Pretty good,” said Blaise. “I sold a Van Gogh.” As Edgerton peered up at him suddenly, he added, “An early one. Dutch.”

  “Junk,” was Edgerton’s comment.

  “And a Cezanne,” Blaise added, unruffled by the interruption. “The still life from the Haller collection.”

  “Haller let it go, eh? Fatheaded ignoramus. Only decent painting he had.” As Blaise smiled, he roared hotly, “What the hell are you laughing at? You made a few dollars peddling Haller’s picture and now you think he’s Jesus Christ Almighty! Hell, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t even be allowed in Haller’s house. You’d still be peddling calendars.”

  “Very true,” said Blaise. “And it’s kind of you to remind me from time to time. Keeps me from getting a swelled head.”

  There was another pause, longer this time, and Blaise sensed that his patron was about to divulge the nature of his assignment. He was thinking back to Jonas Astorg, wondering how he knew Edgerton’s decision and whether or not to precipitate a howling rage by divulging the leak, when Edgerton suddenly blurted it all out. “I want to sell some paintings. If you can handle an important job without falling over your feet, speak up and say so.”

  “Sure,” said Blaise. “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t seem to mean a hell of a lot to you,” said Edgerton irritably.

  “I’ve learned to control my emotions,” Blaise told him. “Makes me a better salesman, as a matter of fact.” As Edgerton got up and walked toward the window, he added, “What’s wrong?”

  Edgerton turned to face him. “Nothing. Nothing special, that is. For all I know I may live to be a hundred, but I’m well past sixty and too much of my estate is tied up in paintings.
Some idiot from Washington might come down here, put a ridiculous value on everything and then where do I stand?”

  “You might duck some taxes. Ever think about leaving part of the collection to a museum?”

  “No numbskull tourists come gawking at my collection when I’m alive and they won’t come after I’m dead.” This declaration gave Edgerton at least a fleeting pleasure, and he returned to the table. “No, sir. Not a bloody single painting to any museums, schools, libraries or phony foundations.”

  Blaise laughed. “Public spirited as always, eh?”

  “Public spirit, my eye!” exclaimed Edgerton. “What the hell did the public ever do for painting, or for any art? Show me where the public ever rushed around to help a painter with a new idea?—or a musician?—or a writer? Where was the public when a man like Franz Schubert was freezing and starving? Or when Van Gogh was going mad with neglect? Then in fifty or a hundred years, when their ignorant eyes are opened by people with taste, that’s when the public whines that art should be a public trust, part of the national heritage, it belongs to the people. Well, anybody that doesn’t know yet what I think of the people can read my will and find out.”

  “I could argue with you,” said Blaise, “but it’s your blood pressure and they’re your paintings. Where do I start?”

  “Go talk to Miriam,” said Edgerton, as he sat down. “She’ll give you a list of what I want to sell.”

  Blaise stood up. “I’ll get busy.”

  “Don’t get busy. Take it easy. If word gets out that I’m selling a lot of paintings you’ll scare the hell out of the market and bring prices down. Play it smart. Take one at a time and pick a spot.”

  “I thought of loading them on a pushcart and hawking them up and down 57th Street,” said Blaise.

  “And don’t be funny,” said Edgerton wearily. “Go on. Get over to the library and start to work.”

  * * * *

  Blaise entered the library from the driveway door and found himself in a long, low room, a third of which was the library, with tall stacks of books reaching to the flat ceiling, the remainder a gallery for more of the Edgerton collection. A row of index and filing cabinets, chest-high, separated the two sections. As Blaise came in he heard an anxious, angry voice from the larger area:

  “I know there’s a sale coming. I’ve got to know what the old man is planning to let go. Don’t get coy with me now, Miriam. I’ve got to know.”

  Then Miriam Wayne’s cool, easy voice, saying, “Ask your father. Or ask the run-down floozy who takes so much of your time. Or just go on sweating. You won’t find out…”

  By this time Blaise was at the row of cabinets. He rapped on the nearest one. “Anybody minding the store?”

  Miriam Wayne had already moved a few steps away from her companion, a tall, handsome young man in a linen shirt and trousers. She looked at Blaise curiously. “This is Ellis Blaise, Simon,” she said, and to Blaise, she added, “This is Simon Edgerton.”

  Blaise put out his hand and young Edgerton shook it firmly. “Glad to meet you,” he said, and after a moment added, “Dad told me you were coming.”

  Aside from the incongruity of hearing Lucas Edgerton called Dad, Blaise’s first reaction was that he had told Simon no such thing. Then Simon mentioned a date on the beach and left with more composure than Blaise would have expected from the agitated man whose voice he had heard. When he was gone, Miriam Wayne moved to a desk in the library end of the room and Blaise followed her.

  “The son and heir?” he asked.

  “Himself.”

  “I didn’t frighten him, did I?”

  “The Edgertons,” she said sourly, “are a high-strung, sensitive clan.” She unlocked a section of one file, a card-index, and started through the wads of cards with deft, practiced fingers, occasionally flipping one card aside. In his first chance to study her, Blaise saw that she was truly a handsome girl. She had a high, narrow forehead, keen blue eyes and a fine nose a shade too long to be really beautiful. She wore no discernible makeup but lipstick, and her black hair was pulled back in a tight knot that set off her clear, white skin. There was something oddly prim about her looks, personality and dress, and Blaise felt that she could be drab or beautiful, depending on her own mood and that of the beholder. Right now she was somewhere in-between. She reminded him of what he used to call the curator type—earnest, intelligent students who haunt the museums and libraries during holidays from school, winding up in the art departments of slick magazines or on the junior faculty in progressive schools.

  While she flipped through the cards and the little stack to one side mounted, Blaise asked, “How long have you worked for Edgerton?”

  “This is my third year,” she told him, turning momentarily from the files. “I started just a few months before you met him in New York.”

  “Rugged kind of a job?”

  “We get along.” She turned again. “You manage with him, don’t you?”

  “The three thousand miles between us helps a lot. I’m not sure I could take it on a day-to-day basis.”

  “He’s a bully,” said Miriam. She was locking the cabinets from which she had extracted a stack of cards perhaps an inch thick. “Like all bullies, his bark is worse than his bite.”

  “You’re right,” said Blaise. “The only thing is, his bark is so bad I don’t think I’d even notice it when he bit me.”

  She smiled. “I promise you, you would.” She put the cards on the desk before him. “These are the paintings Mr. Edgerton wants to sell. Some of them are in the house, a few are here in the gallery, most of them are in the vaults. When you’re ready, I can assemble them all in here. Now do you want to browse or talk?”

  “For now,” said Blaise, “I’ll browse.”

  “All right. I’ll do some chores and see about renting you a car. I’ve left word at the house for your lunch to be served in here. Cigarettes are in the boxes and that’s the bar over there.” She took one key from the carved gold ring. “This is for the files. Mr. Edgerton said you were to have it. I made the catalogue of the collection and you’re the only person aside from Mr. Edgerton and myself who has ever seen it.”

  “Thanks,” said Blaise, and picked up the key. “I’ll try to prove myself worthy of the honor.”

  She smiled again. “It’s Mr. Edgerton’s secret, not mine.”

  The rest of the morning and the early afternoon flew by as Blaise began to absorb the extent and scope of the Edgerton collection. Starting in 1908, when Impressionist painting was still a drug on the market, the old man had steadily and shrewdly amassed great examples at prices, as now recorded in these files, that bordered on the ridiculous. Then, with great taste and foresight, as each trend in painting manifested itself, Edgerton’s instincts stayed abreast or ahead, his purchases now reflecting the whole roster of the founders of modern art. When the depression loomed, he applied himself to the great classical masters, concentrating on dealers and collectors with money problems in this trying time. In this last orgy of buying, naturally, a bargain was only that relatively speaking, but Edgerton was amply equipped with courage, money and taste. Glancing over the prices paid for paintings by Vermeer, Giorgone, Rembrandt and El Greco it was easy to see why the old man was now worried about inheritance taxes.

  At two o’clock a neat, elderly houseman brought his lunch. Blaise stopped working to eat it, and afterwards wandered around the gallery.

  He was in the far, shadowy end of the gallery, where most of the light came from the soft glow of reflectors fitted to each painting, when he noticed that the door was open. A girl in white shorts and a sleeveless shirt was watching him. She had a highball glass in one hand and smoke curled up from a cigarette in the other. She came inside, leaving the door open, resting her elbows on the dividing bank of cabinets. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders and deep, green eyes leveled on him candidly as he approached.

>   “I’m Cass Edgerton,” she said, “and I know who you are, mister. You’re from the wicked East, a New York sharper out to trim us Edgertons of our rightful inheritance. The object of my visit,” she continued with great dignity, “is to inform you that we have papers ready, proving that Uncle Lucas is incompetent and can’t dispose of a thing.”

  “I want to be around,” said Blaise, “when he hears about that.”

  The girl shuddered. “I don’t.” Then she smiled suddenly. “The whole Edgerton family was on hand to get a look at you at lunch. Where were you?”

  “I ate in here,” Blaise told her. “Miss Wayne arranged it.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” she said emphatically.

  Blaise let it pass. “I’m sorry I missed the whole Edgerton family at lunch. Sorrier, now that I know what I missed.”

  Her smile widened. “Charming. A pretty speech. You have a way with you, a smooth manner that has probably enabled you to victimize hundreds of rich young girls before me.”

  Blaise moved around to her side of the cabinets. “Are you a rich young girl?”

  “Can you imagine Lucas Edgerton with a poor niece?” She followed him to the desk, bringing her glass, and sat facing him on the edge. Her warm, sunny smile seemed to give the huge library a new and friendly charm. Rich or poor, thought Blaise, a stunning girl.

  “How many Edgertons, all told, did I miss at lunch?” he asked.

  “Just a few. It’s quite exclusive, you know. Very difficult to get into the clan Edgerton, and,” she added thoughtfully, “darn near impossible to get out. But to get on with the inventory, you’ve met Uncle Lucas, of course.” Blaise nodded respectfully, and she went on. “Uncle Lucas is my guardian, counselor, friend—more a father than an uncle. Then there’s my cousin, Simon, not just a cousin but a true pal; and then there’s me, Cassy, a creature of silk and flame, elusive as the wind.”

  “You’re quite a talker.”

 

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