The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  “I heard the shop noises,” said Blaise. “Kick me out if I’m disturbing you.”

  “I was carving a frame,” said Grandi. “That is like whittling toy boats—an occupation to be set aside on any pretext.” He took a small section of frame from a vise on his work-table, carried it to the window where an abstract Bracque was propped on a chair and placed the piece of wood carefully on the upper edge of the unframed canvas. Then he stepped back to stand beside Blaise.

  “You see what I am trying to do?”

  Blaise nodded. “Something like the pattern of the painting repeated in the frame, isn’t it?”

  “Splendid!” said Grandi, in the manner of a schoolmaster complimenting a pupil.

  “It’s beautiful work,” said Blaise, moving closer to it.

  “It requires only patience and some rudimentary skill. A few centuries ago a man like myself would have found employment in a monastery, perhaps illuminating manuscripts. In that time the Church was a refuge for craftsmen; today it is men like Lucas Edgerton.”

  “You make it sound like a complete retreat from the world,” said Blaise. “Is it?”

  “I live in California,” said Grandi simply, “and I do not own a car. That can only be described as vegetating.” He drew Blaise into the next room and closed the door. This was a bed-sitting-room, with a fireplace. A large studio couch was covered with a burgundy spread and a Regency desk stood between the two windows. There were some paintings on the walls, including a Sisley landscape, a Corot painting and the little Degas nude that had been taken from the gallery the night before.

  “The paintings,” said Grandi promptly, “are on loan.” He poured a small glass of cognac which he offered first to Blaise, who refused it. “I understand,” said Grandi. “However, it seems like much later in the day to me. The police woke me at three-thirty.” He sipped the brandy slowly. “Have you seen Mr. Edgerton?” he asked.

  “Yes. He seems quite shattered.”

  Grandi nodded. “Of course. It is a matter of ego.” Hastily, he added, “You understand, I do not underestimate a father’s natural feelings. Poor Edgerton was never able to understand how a man like himself could have a son who was anything short of the perfect successor.”

  “Do you think Simon was stealing paintings from the collection?”

  Grandi’s gesture seemed to dismiss the question as unimportant. “Perhaps.”

  “Did he need money?”

  “The police asked that question. I told them, quite truthfully, by the way, that I had no means of knowing whether he did or not. To you, however, I will enlarge on my answer.” In the same odd, professorial manner which lacked only a pointer and slides to be completely academic, Grandi said, “Consider a young man like Simon Edgerton. He is brought up by a succession of governesses, tutors and private schools—all admirable people and institutions but all substitutes for a father who is completely submerged in a peculiar collection of paintings which the boy does not even remotely understand. Wouldn’t you hate the collection?”

  “Yes,” said Blaise.

  “Simon loathed it. His feelings were for a long time outweighed by his fear of his father, but little by little the scales began to tip the other way.”

  “That makes sense,” conceded Blaise. “Who helped him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Grandi promptly. “I don’t know when the thefts began or when they stopped.”

  “Do you know a girl named Molly Dann? A model?”

  Grandi smiled quietly. “I know there is such a girl.”

  “How did Simon meet her?”

  Grandi’s smile widened. “Very sensible, Mr. Blaise. An excellent place to begin. The police will search for enemies and motives and clues. Simon’s artistic connections will prove much more rewarding.” He drained the last of the brandy in the little glass. “Now I must return to my whittling.”

  Blaise walked back into the shop with him. Grandi picked up the section of frame and locked it into the vise, then turned to study the painting for which it was intended. He picked up the electric drill, holding it as delicately as a painter might hold his finest, thinnest brush. He snapped the switch and the hum of the motor began, whining up the scale to a shrill crescendo. Then he bent over his work in absolute concentration. His expression was blank and serene. Blaise watched him for a moment, then went out quietly.

  Chapter 7

  Molly Dann lived in a tiny bungalow in a new development of similar houses near Culver City. She came to the door stretching and yawning from sleep, but she asked Blaise in quite cordially and sat him in a window-seat while she moved in and out of a miniature kitchen, answering his questions easily and with apparent candor. She was wearing a soft, flannel robe, only loosely tied. She seemed utterly unconscious of her superb body and the revealing flashes her sweeping movements occasioned. She settled herself at last on a low hassock, the coffee and rolls on a little table. So far her ready, instinctive responses gave Blaise the impression that she was fond of Simon Edgerton, but not much more than that. He was good for laughs and presents; they went out a lot to night clubs to dance, and once in a while to Laguna, Coronado, Palm Springs or Las Vegas for the week-end, depending on the climate or the mood.

  “He was a nice guy,” said Molly, summing it up. “What I liked was he was tolerant. He liked what I wore, didn’t try to correct my grammar or my manners and if we went out and I got stewed he’d look after me without any high and mighty nonsense. Some guys,” she went on wrathfully, “in a restaurant or at a party they’re on pins and needles for fear you might say ‘ain’t’ or show your legs when you sit down. Then they get you home and you find out all of a sudden that they’re not so proper. Damn peculiar, some of them.” She eyed Blaise speculatively. “You look like a regular guy. Tell me what happened. So far, with the cops pumping me, I haven’t found out a thing.”

  “I don’t know much,” said Blaise. “What happened after I left the Lido?”

  “That Norden came in a couple of minutes later. I think Simon was expecting him. Anyway, I got fobbed off to dance with some fellow we knew in another party, and after a couple of turns I came back to the table and they were just sitting there.”

  “How was Simon? I mean, what kind of a mood was he in?”

  “Like a kid with a new baseball mitt. Honest, he was grinning like an ad for some pep medicine. If I didn’t know him better I’d have thought he had a shot in the arm while I was dancing. I was surprised at the way he was acting and Norden was, too, I think. He left in a few minutes. First he whispered something to Simon. I couldn’t hear what it was, but it didn’t bother Simon a bit. When Norden was gone, he sent away the bottle of whiskey on the table and ordered champagne—a magnum. Then he wanted to dance. He lifted me out of my chair and swung me around—he was that chipper. On the floor, he seemed to be chuckling about something, and once he laughed right out loud. I kept on asking him to let me in on the joke, but he’d just give me a little pat and say he’d tell me later. About one in the morning he paid the tab and then he brought me home. He was in such a good mood I thought he’d want to—well, you know—sort of stick around here, but he said he had to do something important. He just kissed me good night,” she finished sadly, “and off he went.”

  “You never got any idea of what was making him so happy?” asked Blaise.

  “Not a glimmer. I wish I did. Anyway, if a guy has to go, Simon certainly went out laughing. But he was mostly that kind of a fellow. I’ve seen him drop five thousand in a dice game, then borrow a hundred from a dealer and buy drinks for the house with it.”

  “Where did you meet Simon?” asked Blaise.

  “At a gallery here, about a year ago. I pose a lot for a painter named Weldon, and…”

  “Paul Weldon?” asked Blaise, interrupting.

  “Yeah. Do you know him?”

  “I know who he is. Pretty good painter.”
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  “He is?” Molly looked surprised. “I guess he is at that. His stuff gets shown and people must buy it. Anyway, the Kenneth Lurie gallery gave him a show and they opened it with a snazzy cocktail party. Weldon took me to it…” She giggled suddenly. “Remember what I told you that Simon was tolerant. I’d been working in a movie, just in a bit, but I wore an evening gown. It was in two pieces, with nothing here.” She stroked her robe, at the midriff. “And not a hell of a lot anywhere. It had some white fur tacked on, too. It must have been ghastly,” she added candidly. “Even I know that now. Weldon turned all colors when he saw it and for a minute I thought he was going to leave me home. He didn’t, but when we got to the gallery he parked me in a corner and didn’t come near me for hours. Simon was the only person in the place who was pleasant to me. We left the party—it was full of creeps—and went dancing.”

  “Did that amuse Paul Weldon?” asked Blaise mildly.

  “Him?” Molly laughed. “He’s the kind of a guy that doesn’t want a girl—he just wants the torch. With fellows like that a girl is just an excuse for crying jags. He was always burned up when I went out with Simon, though—more than when I went with other men. Some special grudge, maybe because he was Simon Edgerton. I posed for him yesterday. He was doing one of those creepy nudes. I’m sure he paints them because it’s his way of hitting back at women. Anyway, when I was dressed and leaving he found out I had a date with Simon and he hit the ceiling.” As Blaise looked at her sharply, she added, “Oh, I told the cops. They can check on him but it’s a thousand to one he just stayed home with a bottle, then cried in his pillow.”

  “Sounds charming,” murmured Blaise. “How did Simon get to that first party? Was he a particular friend of Lurie?”

  “Nothing special. We went there one other time, to another party, but if Simon had anything to do with him aside from that he didn’t tell me.”

  “Did he see much of any other dealers or artists?”

  “None at all, as far as I know. Maybe Norden, but I doubt it. Whatever Norden was bothering him about didn’t date back more than a couple of days.”

  “You know that Simon and Hugh Norden were in some trouble a while ago, don’t you, Molly?”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think Norden could have been blackmailing him about that—or about anything?”

  “Would that have made him so happy?” asked Molly.

  Blaise nodded his agreement. “Just testing. You’re right, of course. I’m sorry I crashed into your nap.”

  “It’s all right. I was glad to talk to somebody who didn’t have a badge on his chest.” She rose gracefully from her cross-legged pose on the hassock, and as Blaise got up from the window-seat she stopped him. “No. Wait. Are you a dealer? Is that on the level, or are you some kind of cop?”

  “Dealer,” said Blaise. “If you call that being on the level.”

  “Simon left something with me,” said Molly. “I didn’t tell the police”—she hesitated—“well, you’ll know why when I show it to you.” She took a cardboard tube, open at both ends, from a table near the door, and with two fingers carefully drew out a sheet of drawing paper protected by sheets of tissue. She spread this and held it flat on the table for Blaise to examine. It was a study in pencil and charcoal, a reclining figure, half-nude. It was unsigned but the master hand of Auguste Renoir was in every stroke that formed the luxurious beauty of the face and figure. Even in the harsh black and white medium it glowed with the artist’s warm and tender style.

  “It’s a Renoir, isn’t it?” asked Molly.

  “One of the best. An early one, probably 1880 or thereabouts.”

  “I think Norden brought it to the Lido last night. Anyway, Simon had it when we were leaving. He asked me to keep it for him. He said it was worth a lot of money and he didn’t want to ride around with it. I didn’t tell the police because I thought maybe it was hot.”

  Blaise had taken the drawing, was holding it to the light. “It was things like this one that Simon and Norden handled the time before.”

  “I know,” said Molly. “Will you take it?” He turned to look at her. “Do whatever has to be done with it.”

  “It may not be hot. Simon may have meant it as a present for you. It’s worth a couple of thousand dollars. Maybe as much as three.”

  “I’ll trust you with it,” the girl said simply. “If it’s mine you can sell it for me. I just wouldn’t want to kick up any scandal for his family.”

  Blaise rolled up the drawing in its protective tissues then fitted it into the tube. “All right, Molly. It’s very decent of you.”

  She laughed wearily. “Be sure and stick a gold star on my report card.”

  Chapter 8

  The Kenneth Lurie Gallery was housed in what had once been one of the downtown area’s finest mansions. It was an enormous English brick house, set well back from the street. There was a circular driveway surrounding a fine, clipped lawn. A bronze marker was the only external clue to the commercial nature of the establishment.

  The paneled oval drawing room was the main exhibition hall, but the spacious foyer and the dining room opposite were also used for this purpose. Beyond these was the large library, and this, because it was Kenneth Lurie’s private office, was kept as it had been in the old days of the establishment, when early settlers who had cleaned up in oil, railroads and real estate frolicked on the premises.

  Jonas Astorg was seated in an enormous, high-backed leather chair in the library, almost lost in its vast proportions, while Kenneth Lurie sat at the large flat desk, his chair tilted back, his feet up on a revolving bookstand at his right.

  “Of course I’m sorry about the boy,” said Lurie irritably. “What do you suggest I do? Close the gallery for thirty days? Fly a flag at half-mast? Or I’ll tell you what,” he drawled sarcastically. “Let’s make up a purse and present it to his poor deserving father.” He swung his feet down from the bookstand and turned the chair to face Astorg directly. “You can be as sanctimonious as you like, Jonas. From my point of view, Hugh Norden did us a hell of a big favor.” His heavy features relaxed into a broad smile. “Now if the police will only arrest and execute him in a hurry, that will be perfect.”

  “Will that take the load off your mind?” asked Astorg.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why should Norden have wanted to kill him?”

  “Why? How the hell should I know why? Maybe he was holding Simon up for money and the boy got tough. Maybe he was out to steal some pictures on his own and Simon caught him. Maybe they were sweethearts. I can think of a million reasons.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Astorg shifted himself so that he sat on the edge of the chair. “I’m thinking of buying back the Renoir,” he said quietly.

  Lurie’s head came up slowly. He fixed the other man with a pained, puzzled look. “This is some new nonsense, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not happy with the deal. It’s too complicated.”

  “Then buy it back. I doubt if Ordmann will sell it to you. He’s very proud of the painting.”

  “I may give him a small profit. We ought to do it together. You’ve had nearly a hundred thousand dollars from me, and…”

  “I’ve had!” Lurie repeated it incredulously. “I’ve had! How do you think I got the paintings, Jonas? My own share, so far, has been insignificant.”

  “Nevertheless,” insisted Astorg, “we are partners and we should act in this as if…” He stopped at the sound of a buzzer and turned to the door as it was opened by Lurie’s clerk.

  “Yes, Casper,” said Lurie irritably. “What is it?”

  “A Mr. Blaise to see you,” said the clerk.

  “Ellis Blaise?” asked Lurie.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the clerk. “He has a gallery in New York,” he added, while Lurie and Astorg exchanged glances. Then Astorg nodded, sinking ba
ck into his chair, and Lurie said, “Show him in, Casper.”

  The clerk backed out, leaving the door open. Astorg rose from the chair and was facing the open door when Blaise came in. He was carrying the tube in which the Renoir drawing was rolled and shifted it to his left hand as Astorg stepped up, his own hand extended.

  “Ellis! What a pleasant surprise. I told Lurie he ought to meet you while you were here. I didn’t expect the pleasure of introducing you.” He drew Ellis to the desk.

  “It’s an honor, Mr. Blaise,” said Lurie, while they shook hands. “You’re as close as I’ve ever come to the Edgerton collection.” He opened a cupboard behind the desk. “What about a drink?”

  “Small whiskey,” said Blaise. He put the tube in his pocket, though it projected uncomfortably, and sat down in one of the chairs Lurie indicated near his desk.

  “Terrible thing, that business with the Edgerton boy,” murmured Astorg.

  Blaise nodded. Lurie handed him a glass and Blaise said, “You knew him, didn’t you, Mr. Lurie?”

  “Slightly. I used to ask him to parties here.” He smiled sadly. “Frankly, because I thought that through him I might get to meet his father. But I don’t think he had much influence there.”

  Astorg took a little glass of brandy handed him by Lurie. “Well, here’s luck, Ellis.”

  “Luck,” repeated Blaise, and Lurie chimed in with, “And may all my customers strike oil.”

  Blaise put down the empty glass. “How’s business?”