by Howard Mason
Norden rubbed his cigarette out in a dish on one of the shelves. “Tonight was just a personal thing. We’re friends, but I haven’t touched anything from the Edgerton collection since we had all that trouble.”
“How is it Edgerton didn’t prosecute you?” asked Blaise.
“Ask him,” snapped Norden.
“I will.”
“You’re getting it all wrong,” Norden insisted. “I’m a dealer. I’ve got a big following. Lots of important movie people buy from me. This boy came along with some drawings—nothing sensational—just fair Impressionist drawings. After all, he’s Simon Edgerton. And these drawings, they could be something his father gave him for Christmas, or a birthday. I sold them openly, nothing undercover about it…”
“Did you tell your customers they were from the Edgerton collection?”
“Strictly speaking,” said Norden, “they weren’t. It would be a misrepresentation,” he added virtuously. “At the time I thought Simon needed some money and was selling some of his personal things.” As Blaise looked at him skeptically he went on with some heat. “You say you’re a dealer. All right, put yourself in my position. A man like Simon Edgerton comes in—no bum, mind you—and offers a few drawings. What would you do—call the police?”
“What’s your business with Simon now?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Norden hesitantly. “I let Simon use this place once in a while. He’s kind of a ladies’ man, and it’s handy for him to have a place in town.” At the frank look of amusement Blaise gave him he stopped abruptly. “Well, then get the hell out! You asked me and I’m telling you.”
“Thin,” said Blaise sadly. Norden shook another cigarette out of his pack. “I’d like to be around,” continued Blaise, “when you tell Lucas Edgerton that story. Or when the police get to it.”
“You’re dumb,” said Norden. “Dumb as they come. Do you think I’m chump enough to get mixed up with that fire-eating old bastard again?”
“I’m puzzled,” admitted Blaise. “It would be a sucker trick, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would.” Norden’s initial terror seemed to have given way to a confident exhilaration. There was a feeling of power and command now, as recognizable as the pure panic with which he had greeted Blaise. He was certainly terrified of something or somebody, but Blaise was forced to admit that he himself did not inspire this. “If Edgerton sent you,” Norden was saying, “tell the swashbuckling old hellion that I’m in the clear. Whoever sent you, tell him that.” He held the door open, jerking his thumb to the hall. “That’s all.”
“I can just picture you in the clear,” said Blaise. “What you mean is, you think you’ve covered your tracks.”
Norden leaned against the door in an easy, arrogant pose. “Haven’t I?”
Blaise laughed. “This room and everything in it look hot to me. And the hottest thing in it, my friend, is you.”
“I’m in a different line now,” protested Norden mildly. “In a way, I’m a consultant.” He closed the door, gently but firmly, easing Blaise into the small, dark hall, and then there was the rattle of a bolt and chain.
Traffic was thinned out now and he had an easy drive to the beach. The night clerk at the Ocean Inn gave him three messages, all from Cass Edgerton, all within the last hour and he heard his phone ringing as he opened the door of the suite. He stumbled to the phone in the dark. It was Cass again.
“I’ve been calling you,” she said. “Have you been ignoring me?”
“You know better than that,” he told her. “I just got in.”
“Well, so much for my outraged vanity. Did you talk to Simon?”
“At some length, Cassy. Say, that’s quite a girl he’s got. Built like…”
She interrupted him sternly. “That was not your mission. There is such a thing as being too observant. What about Simon?”
“I think he’s in the clear,” said Blaise. “I’ve only got his word for it, but I don’t think he’s been dipping into the family treasure. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
“And you’re not mad at me?” asked Cassy.
“No. If you had waited another minute I would have told you so. Then you could have gone peacefully to sleep.”
“Think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Blaise. “Good night, Cassy.”
She laughed. It was clear and friendly. “Good night, Ellis.”
Blaise put down the phone. He undressed swiftly and was asleep within a few minutes. The night before had been spent in the plane and he was grateful for the deep, wide soft bed provided by the Ocean Inn. The hammering on his door, when it began, had no effect at all, but it penetrated slowly, merging with some unremembered dream, so that even when he opened his eyes it took a while to convince him that it was real. It was still dark in the windows facing west and with no recollection of where the switches were located he stumbled to the door in the other room. “Coming,” he growled in transit, then cursed vividly as his bare foot banged into the edge of a chair.
He opened the door. The night clerk was in the hall with two men. “Sorry, Mr. Blaise,” said the clerk. “I had to wake you. It’s the police.”
“County Homicide Bureau,” said one of the other two men in a soft, unhurried voice. “My name is Ives. Lieutenant Ives. This is Sergeant Bonner.” Ives turned to the clerk. “All right. Thanks.” As Blaise moved back both men came in, Sergeant Bonner closing the door. By that time Blaise had groped his way to a switch and turned on the lights. Sergeant Bonner stood by the door, as if on guard.
“Simon Edgerton was killed up at the house this morning,” said Lieutenant Ives.
Blaise sat down abruptly, looking up at the detective.
“Surprised?” asked Lieutenant Ives.
“What the hell do you think?” replied Blaise.
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Blaise?” asked Ives, and when Blaise shook his head, he motioned to Sergeant Bonner. “Mind if the Sergeant has a look around?”
Blaise shook his head again and Ives motioned his aide into the bedroom. Then the Lieutenant sat down in a chair near Blaise and hunched it forward so that he was in an attentive pose. “You were searching Simon Edgerton’s room last night. Later on you were with him in a night club.” Having said this, he leaned back as if he was positive that a flood of information would be released. When Blaise didn’t instantly speak up, he leaned forward again and in a friendly tone, asked “Ever have much to do with the police?”
“Not much,” said Blaise.
“I have,” said Lieutenant Ives, all but twinkling in his geniality. “One thing I learned from being around the police so much: in a murder you’ve got to tell what you know. That’s how it’s got to be.”
“I know,” said Blaise reluctantly. “The thing is, I work for Lucas Edgerton.”
“You’re a picture dealer,” said Ives, “not a priest or a lawyer.” He looked up past Blaise as Sergeant Bonner came from the bedroom. The sergeant said nothing but shook his head and Ives said, “Wait a minute.”
As Bonner took up his post at the door again, the Lieutenant said, “What about it, Mr. Blaise?”
Blaise nodded. “Sure. I guess that’s how it’s got to be.”
“Wait in the car, Bonner,” the Lieutenant told him.
“Have you talked to Cass Edgerton?” asked Blaise.
“Some. Not a lot.”
“Didn’t she tell you about my searching Simon’s room?”
“No,” said Ives. “We found your fingerprints in the library, then on every drawer in the boy’s room.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Blaise. He told Ives the nature of his assignment to sell some paintings and about Simon’s anxiety earlier that day. Then about the loss of the cards and what he knew of Simon’s previous escapades. “That’s why I went to the Lido to talk to him. The odd part,”
he said thoughtfully, “is that he told me he wasn’t in any trouble and I believed him. Then, as I was on my way out, Hugh Norden was going in.” He described the simple maneuver that revealed Norden’s identity and Norden’s conduct with the gun when he pushed his way into the dwelling.
“What time did you leave Norden?” asked Ives.
“Between twelve-thirty and one—say twelve forty-five.”
“Simon Edgerton was shot at about three,” said Ives. “We sent a car to pick up Norden at four-thirty. He was gone—packed in a hurry, and gone.”
“I had the damnedest feeling about him last night,” said Blaise. “He was scared to the trembling point when I came in, but when I told him I thought he and Simon had been selling stolen paintings he seemed relieved. He wasn’t frightened any more, but actually patronizing, as if he knew something big and private.”
“He didn’t get around to any details?” asked Lieutenant Ives wistfully.
“No. But I felt the same thing in Simon. He was a jittery wreck earlier in the day but in the Lido last night it was as if he had the upper hand and knew it.”
“The gatekeeper,” said Ives, “tells me he passed Simon’s car in a few minutes before three. Apparently, he then went up to the house. A few minutes after three, the gateman thought he saw a light on the beach. While he was investigating he heard a shot somewhere on the grounds and found Simon’s body outside the gallery, under an open window. He’d been shot by someone standing right beside him, at point-blank range. It was a mess.” The Lieutenant looked out at the gray dawn that was starting to stretch over the ocean. “Been a long night,” he muttered and yawned heavily. “How were things at the house? All one big, happy family?”
“I just got here,” said Blaise pointedly.
Ives nodded, accepting this. “The old man’s secretary—Miriam Wayne—she was hit hard. An emotional type, would you say?”
“I would if I could.”
“Anything special going on there?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Lieutenant Ives stood up wearily. “Sorry I broke up your sleep. Thanks.”
Blaise took him to the door. It was after six now. He dressed quickly and fortified himself with some coffee at an all-night fisherman’s stand, then drove to the Edgerton estate. There was a police car in the driveway, just inside the gates, and a trooper was standing by the gatekeeper. The Edgerton man identified him, the gates were opened and Blaise drove up to the house.
Lucas Edgerton was standing in the driveway between the house and the gallery. He wore a black, belted raincoat against the morning fog and he watched with dull, somber eyes as Blaise parked the car.
“I’m sorry,” said Blaise. “The police woke me up and I thought I’d drive out and see if I could help with anything.”
Edgerton beckoned him into the gallery. “Come on in.”
Blaise followed him in. One lamp was lighted on the desk and Miriam Wayne was seated there now. A pot of coffee was on a typewriter table and she had a cup in front of her.
Edgerton said, “Show him the cards, Miriam.”
She lifted the blotter on the desk, first moving the coffee to one side, and handed him the small, flat package of cards. “They were on the floor, between those two cabinets,” she said, pointing to the nearest section of the index.
“Did you look there when you missed them?” demanded Edgerton.
“Yes, I did.”
“Positive?”
“I made a point of looking under the desk, back of the files—everywhere.”
“The damn fool,” blurted Edgerton suddenly. “The poor damn fool boy,” he said again, and then he turned his back abruptly. Miriam Wayne looked at him, shook her head sadly and swung her chair around to the desk. Blaise stood there awkwardly, caught in the tableau. After a moment, still with his back turned, Edgerton said, “I want an inventory taken right away.”
Miriam nodded. “That won’t be difficult. I’ll start on it at once.”
Edgerton faced them again. In the lined and tired face his eyes were burning. “We’ll do it together,” he said fiercely.
“I see.” She faced him steadily, her voice, as always, perfectly controlled. “Very well, then. Whenever you’re ready.” She picked up her purse, dangling on the back of the chair, and started out. “I’ll be in my room,” she said, not addressing Edgerton in particular.
Edgerton was already pacing up and down between the desk and the door. Blaise lit a cigarette, idly riffling the retrieved cards in his fingers.
“Blaise!” snapped Edgerton.
“Sir?”
“What kind of trouble was he in?”
Blaise found it hard to meet the old man’s eyes. “I don’t know that he was in any trouble at all.” He felt called upon to explain his own role in last night’s activity. “Cassy—your niece—was worried, and I wanted to have a talk with him about the cards I lost.”
“Well?”
“I talked to Simon, and then I talked to Hugh Norden. They had some sort of a racket going,” he said candidly, “but my own idea is that it had nothing to do with your paintings. That’s my own idea,” he finished lamely. “I’m not sure that it’s a very good one.”
“I’d like to think it was true,” said Edgerton. “I’d like to be sure it was true.”
“The police will sift it all now. Last night, when it was still all serene, at least on the surface, I thought I might be able to throw a scare into Simon—or into Norden. That was based on the notion that something had been stolen, and probably sold, out of your collection. I honestly believe that was wrong. They laughed at me.”
“What could it have been?”
Blaise shrugged. “It’s wide open.” Confronted with Edgerton’s staring, hopeless expression, he added reluctantly, “If I come on anything, I’ll follow it up. Mostly, though, it’s for the police.”
“All right.” The old man walked to the window, cranked it open and shook his head as if to clear it of the weariness and anxiety written on him. “I’m an old man, Blaise,” he said dully. “I was past forty when the boy was born. Not a good age to be a father. Not if you’re busy with a bank, factories, real estate, airlines and an art collection. I was hardly aware of my son until he was in trouble.”
“What the hell,” said Blaise uncomfortably. “You probably did the best you could.”
“Maybe. I doubt it. I didn’t want to be a heavy father, but I didn’t know what else to be. I’m not cut out for heart-to-heart talks. I thought that if I kept raising his allowance that would solve everything. But I didn’t turn him away,” he said anxiously. “Not ever. I just never knew how to do the things I should have done. And to lose him this way—this ugly, violent way—and not to know even what caused it…” He looked at Blaise for a moment, or rather Blaise had the feeling that he was looking at some point beyond him. “Stay on for a few days,” said Edgerton, in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’ll get back to business when I feel better.”
“Anything you say,” Blaise promised. He watched the old man go, then moved to the desk and put his hand on the coffeepot deserted by Miriam Wayne. There was still some warmth in it and he poured a cup of the black, dull brew. He was drinking it when Cass came in and, behind her, Jennings with fresh coffee and some rolls.
“Miriam told me you were here,” she said, as Jennings put down the tray and removed the old service.
“How do you feel, Cassy?”
“Tired,” she said, pouring the coffee. “But I guess that’s the rock-bottom minimum emotion under the circumstances. And I’m not being hard-boiled.” She handed him a fresh cup of coffee. “I’ve been imagining and dreading so many terrible things for so long that now that this nightmare is really among us I just can’t work up any of the conventional flow of tears and maidenly grief. I just feel so sorry for him.”
“For Simon?” asked Bl
aise.
“Of course. Whom did you have in mind?”
“Just asking.”
“You’re really an all-out, hundred-per-cent employee, aren’t you?”
“The old man’s been hit hard,” said Blaise. “He’s full of guilt about what he thinks is his own share in the tragedy. He left here a moment before you came in. He wasn’t the high and mighty Edgerton of Edgerton—just an old man with a load of pain strapped to his back. He could use a kind word.”
“Him?” Cass was frankly incredulous.
“Failing that,” said Blaise, “in your case, what about some common, garden-variety gratitude?”
She studied him. “You’ve got that feeling again, haven’t you? About smacking me?”
“Unless you’re a good girl,” said Blaise, “I won’t. Anyway, you’ll be all right. You’ve got good instincts.”
Cass pushed back her chair. “Excuse me.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going up to the house to talk to Uncle Lucas,” she said defiantly. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” said Blaise, smiling. He walked with her to the door of the gallery. “I’m going into town, but I’ll be back later on in the day. I’ll take you for a ride. Get the roses back in those cheeks.”
“I’ll go,” said Cass, “but only because it’s good for me. I’m not sure I like you any more. I find myself doing what you think I ought to do. That’s a hell of a way to start a friendship.”
“Don’t swear,” said Blaise. “It’s not ladylike.”
He walked back to the desk, picked up the little wad of cards and fanned them thoughtfully. He was only vaguely aware of the names, titles and prices flashing by. Undoubtedly the brief possession of these cards had given Simon Edgerton that precious sense of security so evident in their last interview, but Blaise could form no intelligent reason for it. He stacked them in a neat 3x5 pack, looped the rubber band twice around and dropped them into his coat pocket. Then he went out to his car and started down toward the gate, but at the bend in the driveway he noticed for the first time a small, neat brick-and-stucco building screened by large eucalyptus trees. It was about a hundred feet from the driveway, with a little flagstone walk that started between the trees. Blaise remembered Victor Grandi’s shop on the premises, and the other man’s invitation to visit him. He eased the car onto the graveled shoulder of the driveway and went up the walk to the house. He heard the whir of a small motor and smelled a vague, not unpleasant aroma of mingled paint and oil. He wielded the heavy brass knocker on the front door and the motor stopped. Then the door was opened by Victor Grandi, who instantly threw it wide, beckoning Blaise inside.
