by Howard Mason
“It’s not a good town,” said Lurie. “I’m not saying that to keep you from opening a branch, if that’s what you’ve got in mind. The movie crowd buys a little but the few that spend really big money like to do it in New York or Paris. The rest of the well-to-do citizens, the merchants and bankers, they’re still gushing over Rosa Bonheur and genuine hand-painted Corot copies.”
“Don’t let him cry too much, Ellis,” put in Astorg. “Lurie has a fine business.”
“Oh, I do all right, but most of it is business I’ve built up in Texas, Oklahoma, and the oil states. Thank God for Texas! Anything with a frame around it brings a price down there. They stamp out millionaires overnight. I got to Dallas once with a car full of paintings and made my first stop in the suburbs to see a struggling young lawyer who had asked me to look for a cheap Modigliani drawing he wanted. The night before I arrived, a tremendous oil strike was made on a tract next door to some land he owned. That’s as far as I got that trip. He bought everything in the car and I gave him the drawing for a present. That’s Texas.”
“Speaking of drawings.” Blaise took the tube from his pocket and passed it to Lurie. “Have a look at that. I just got it today.”
Lurie carefully drew out the enclosure and Astorg came around behind the desk to examine it with him. Lurie pressed the drawing down flat on his desk and snapped on the light.
“Say, you’ve got something!”
“Beautiful,” murmured Astorg. He looked across the desk to Blaise, who was lighting a cigarette. “You say you bought this here?”
“I haven’t bought it,” said Blaise. “I’ve got it on a sort of consignment basis. It’s worth about three thousand, I should think.”
“Sure.” Lurie took his hands off the corners of the paper, letting it roll up loosely. “Who owns it?”
“Private party. Wants to stay that way,” said Blaise affably.
“I’ve got a customer for it,” said Lurie. “I’d like to have it.”
“Perhaps later on,” said Blaise. “I haven’t quite made up my mind about the price.”
“I’d like to please this particular customer. He bought a Renoir here, but he couldn’t afford this period in an oil. I promised him a fine drawing and he’s been riding me about it. It’s an accommodation, actually, and it’s important to me for the good will, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’m sure I can get the three thousand. You can have it all. A deal?”
“It’s fair enough,” said Blaise. “More than fair. I’ll wait on it, though. Give me twenty-four hours.”
“No hurry,” said Lurie, and carefully rolled up the drawing, slipping it back into the tube. He handed it across to Blaise who put it back in his pocket.
“Let’s forget about the drawing,” urged Astorg, “and talk about some real money. I was right, was I not, Ellis? Edgerton is going to sell some paintings, isn’t he?”
“Right. By the way, Jonas, how did you learn that?”
“Private party,” said Astorg, smiling. “Wants to stay that way. How many paintings are for sale, Ellis?”
“Forty canvases,” answered Blaise promptly. “All Impressionist paintings.”
Lurie whistled. “Jesus! Forty paintings from the Edgerton Collection.” He looked wistfully at Blaise. “Texas, the Lone Star State, welcomes you, Brother Blaise.”
“I’d say the lot is worth about a million and a half,” continued Blaise. “I’m working for Edgerton and my prices are net to him.”
“Send in the list,” urged Astorg. “I’m sure we can do business. I’ve got some fine customers, Lurie has his Texas plutocrats; between us, we might handle the whole sale.”
Blaise agreed to furnish the list, turned down another drink and shook hands all around. Then he left the Lurie gallery with the Renoir drawing under his arm.
Astorg seated himself again in the big armchair. He watched silently as Lurie poured himself a large straight whiskey and tossed it off like a man who needed it. Then he said, “Lurie, who is your customer who is so crazy about early Renoir drawings?”
“Nobody you know,” was the curt reply.
“It’s odd,” mused Astorg. “I’m worrying myself to death about the early Renoir painting and in comes Ellis Blaise with an early drawing. It’s barely worth the three thousand, you know,” he went on gently. “You’d be making nothing, maybe taking a loss.”
“Not likely,” said Lurie. He sat down at the desk and his strong fingers drummed heavily on the polished surface. “Jonas, I’ve got some business uptown. A client I promised to call on today.”
“I’ll go,” said Astorg promptly, rising from the chair. “Is it the client who is so anxious to have an early Renoir?”
“God damn it!” Lurie’s fists were clenched and his mouth tightened into a hard line. “Why are you nagging at me? Just what the hell is it you want?”
“I want the truth about those paintings,” said Astorg calmly. “It’s very important to me.”
Lurie was livid with barely suppressed rage. “Is that why you went to see Simon Edgerton last night?” Astorg had taken a few steps toward the desk, but now he backed away. “Did he tell you?” demanded Lurie. “Did you like what he told you, or did you lose your fine Continental calm?”
Astorg’s face was gray and beads of perspiration had sprung up on his veined forehead. “You were there,” he said thickly.
“Correction, please,” sneered Lurie. “We were there.”
As if to himself, Astorg mumbled. “You knew he was going to put the cards back in the gallery. It was your idea. You knew just where he’d be and at what time.” Lurie smiled. “Sure. Go tell the police. They’ll thank you for it.” Astorg shook his head and sank down into the big chair. Lurie stood over him. “They have a new gas chamber upstate. Exquisite, functional modern. I can’t tell you what it’s like inside, but maybe you can find out for yourself.” He started to the door. “Help yourself to a drink, Jonas—you look awful.”
Chapter 9
On the way uptown Blaise bought the afternoon papers from a boy hawking them in the main stream of traffic. Then he headed west again and turned off at a drive-in, deserted at this in-between hour. A pretty girl in perilously tight slacks and a distracting halter top brought him a sandwich and cup of very good coffee. By using the steering wheel as a reading-rack he could manage the papers and the sandwich together.
The Edgerton murder was all over the front page, and in inside spreads there were pictures of the house, Lucas Edgerton, Cassy, and one of Lieutenant Ives standing by the open gallery window where Simon’s body had been found. The text indicated that Hugh Norden was much in demand and that the Western states had been alerted in the man-hunt. Each of the papers had a last-minute news bulletin on the search, one stating that Norden had bought gas in San Diego that morning, the other that he had been seen at about the same hour in Reno, some six hundred miles to the north.
Blaise let the girl take away the papers with the tray, then started west again. Near the U.C.L.A. campus he found a large art-supply shop, and after careful examination of the stock, he bought some drawing paper in blocks.
It was early afternoon when he returned to the Edgerton estate, passed the gateman and the uniformed trooper still on duty at the entrance, and drove up to the house. A plain-clothes man and a uniformed policeman were photographing the exterior of the gallery and another technician was on his hands and knees in the shrubbery beside the window, busy with some other apparatus. The gallery doors were locked and the detective told him that Miss Wayne was in the house. He found her in Lucas Edgerton’s combined bed-workroom, lunching there with Edgerton and Dr. Wesley Corum. The critic was once again faultlessly dressed, everything tasteful and somber, ideal for visiting bereaved friends. Miriam and Edgerton had been working and the table was covered with sections of the index. There were also dozens of notebooks, apparently Edgerton’s own original cat
alogue of his hoard.
Blaise shook the Renoir drawing loose from its holder and laid it flat on the table, anchoring it with two paperweights.
“Anybody recognize it?” he asked.
Edgerton looked annoyed. “I know what it is,” he said, “if that’s what you mean.”
“Of course,” said Miriam Wayne. “Renoir.”
“Early,” said Dr. Corum. “Damn fine, too.”
“Simon gave it to a girl last night,” said Blaise.
Miriam gave him a puzzled stare and Edgerton bent over the drawing, examining it now carefully. “It’s not mine,” said the old man and looked to Miriam for confirmation.
The girl said, “No. I’d know at once if that was from the collection.”
“Want to look at it again, Dr. Corum?” invited Blaise.
The critic obediently bent over the paper for a second examination. Then he straightened up. “What is it you want me to say, Blaise?”
“Yes, damn it, Blaise. Speak up,” said Edgerton impatiently.
“It’s not a Renoir,” said Blaise quietly.
Corum turned instantly to the drawing. He bent the pliant neck of a desk lamp so that the paper was caught in its bright glare. Edgerton, however, barely gave the drawing a glance.
“You’re crazy,” he said to Blaise.
Corum straightened up, switching off the lamp. “You’re wrong, my boy,” he said indulgently. “It is certainly Renoir.”
Blaise turned to Miriam Wayne. “What’s your guess?”
“I don’t know enough,” she replied, “but Dr. Corum does and certainly Mr. Edgerton’s word…”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong business,” said Edgerton.
“It’s not Renoir,” insisted Blaise. “It can’t be.”
“Don’t keep babbling it’s not Renoir,” shouted Edgerton. “Why the hell isn’t it?”
“Because,” said Blaise, “it’s on modern paper, made right here in Los Angeles.”
Edgerton stared at him, then turned to look at the drawing again. Corum’s cheerful bedside-manner expression was gone. He looked tense and worried. “I’ll be damned,” muttered Edgerton softly. “I’ll be double damned.” He glanced at Corum. “Hell of a pair of experts, aren’t we?”
“I don’t believe it,” said Corum. His voice was stubborn and petulant.
“I don’t blame you,” said Blaise. “Everything about it is absolutely genuine. I would have bought it and sold it unquestioningly except for the feel of the paper.” He laughed. “Hold it to the light—you’ll see the watermark.”
“What’s the meaning of it?” asked Edgerton. “Where did Simon get it?”
“Apparently from Hugh Norden.”
Dr. Corum was standing over the paper again, shaking his head slowly, as if he couldn’t quite assimilate the shock. Blaise had unwrapped the blocks of drawing paper purchased on the way out. He tore off a few sheets and laid them with the drawing. “I know how you feel,” he said to Dr. Corum. “The idea was driving me crazy, too. However, unless you’re willing to believe that Renoir bought his drawing paper in West Los Angeles within the year, that’s a forgery.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Dr. Corum.
“Never,” he repeated. “I’ve seen forgeries, hundreds—and lots of them made to look like Renoir—but this—this is so free, so natural. It’s perfect.”
“But on modern paper, with a modern water-mark,” said Miriam Wayne. “Surely a great forgery like this would be more skillfully prepared.”
“This was done for practice,” said Blaise. “Dr. Corum commented on the freedom and natural execution of the drawing, and that was achieved by relentless practice. This drawing, and maybe hundreds like it were dry runs, practice rounds made and destroyed so that finally the artist would have achieved the natural hand of the man he was imitating. You can enlarge it by a thousand diameters—I doubt if you’ll find a cramped movement, or a line that looks any more labored. And the object of so much care and effort could not have been to sell a few drawings. Remember Han van Meegeren, Dr. Corum?”
Corum nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.”
“He painted Vermeers,” said Blaise to the others. “Sold at least six, and each of them was authenticated by the greatest experts in Europe. They were subjected to X-rays and shadowgraphs, magnified under electric microscopes—pure Vermeer was the verdict. He sold one to Herman Goering for a million dollars, and when Holland was liberated the Dutch tried him as a collaborator. His defense was that the paintings were forgeries and that he had actually cheated Goering out of the million. The experts came again, the equipment was brought into court and the whole process started again. The paintings could not possibly be forgeries. They even chipped off bits of paint and chemical analysis proved that these dated back to the time of Vermeer. Van Meegeren’s defense, this time, was quite simple. He asked for an adjournment, brought some supplies from his home and painted another Vermeer—just as genuine—in his cell, under the constant supervision of the guards. That settled it.”
Blaise rolled up the drawing, and put it back into the tube. “Don’t buy any Renoirs until you hear from me,” he said to Edgerton.
“What does it mean?” asked the old man. “Was Simon involved?”
“I think so,” said Blaise, “but I don’t know just how. It may account for some puzzling gaps in what the police know so far, and if it does…”
Corum interrupted him. “You’re going to the police with that?”
“Of course.” Blaise looked at him curiously. The critic had recovered some of his composure. Blaise waited for Corum’s response, one which was apparently to be carefully framed.
“I was thinking of the effect on the market for paintings—any paintings—if a forgery of this caliber is publicized. It is always distressing, and now, when some things from the collection are to be sold…”
“I’ll be damned!” said Edgerton. “Do you suppose my mind is on how much a painting brings today?”
Corum looked pained. “Naturally, I don’t mean that, but a thing like this”—he looked back at the drawing on the desk—“has unpredictable effects.”
“Thanks,” said Edgerton coldly. He picked up the drawing and handed it to Blaise. “Get going. Do whatever has to be done. I’ve got a hundred Renoirs and I’d sooner see them sold for wrapping paper than stand in the way of getting at the truth.” Then he turned on Corum again. “Have you handed down an expert opinion on a Renoir lately? Is that what’s bothering you, Wesley?”
Corum looked at him reproachfully, then turned away in silence.
“I’m on my way,” said Blaise. “Any surprises in the inventory?”
“Not so far,” said Miriam. “We’ve only checked about half the catalogue.”
Blaise went downstairs to the sun room and telephoned to Lieutenant Ives. He told the detective he had some information and Ives promised to come to the Ocean Inn at once.
He was on his way to the car when Cass came out of the kitchen door. She had a sandwich in one hand, a glass of milk in the other. She was pale and seemed to be sagging with fatigue. He looked at her critically. “Cassy, you must be all done in. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“It’s on the agenda,” she said. “I was just taking this upstairs”—she extended the sandwich and milk—“and I saw you tearing out. I just wanted to thank you for giving me hell. I had a good cry on Uncle Lucas’s shoulder and I think we both feel better.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Blaise. “Any time.”
She stepped down into the driveway. “Coming back?”
“I promised to take you for a ride, didn’t I? Do you think my word is idly given?”
She followed him down to the car. “Am I missing something? You’re dashing up and down the beach like a man of much mystery.”
“I’m a bloodhoun
d,” Blaise told her. “The rare short eared variety. Only a few of us left in captivity.” He leaned out of the car. “How old are you, Cassy?”
“Twenty-five,” she replied. “Why?”
“Better get some sleep,” he said gently. “You look like an old hag of twenty-six.”
He took his foot off the brake and the car started down the drive. He caught a glimpse of Cass in the rear-vision mirror just before he turned the bend. She was waving and he waved back.
At the hotel he picked up his key and a letter from his office. He glanced at this in the elevator as he went down the hall to the suite.
He jammed the letter into his coat pocket while he fumbled with the key, then opened the door and stepped in. The shutters were closed, as they had been that morning, and the room was in semi-darkness. As he closed the door he was suddenly conscious of a movement behind him, but in the instant of his wish to turn, something heavy crashed down on him and the darkness exploded into light. He felt himself falling and was aware of being caught before he hit the floor. Then the darkness closed in again.
Chapter 10
Paul Weldon had another of the maddening alibis that were beginning to make Lieutenant Ives feel like a shadow boxer. It was simple and straightforward; Weldon could not substantiate it and Ives could not topple it, though he bombarded it skillfully at various levels for an hour.
Weldon readily admitted his jealousy of Simon Edgerton’s success with Molly Dann, but in his waspish, biting way he pointed out that to be consistent he would have had to murder every man she slept with, thus competing with mass production experts like Landru and the Butcher of Dusseldorf.
After watching Molly drive off in the cab, he told Lieutenant Ives, he stayed in the outside world only long enough to buy two bottles of whiskey in a store on Hollywood Boulevard. He then returned to the studio, locked himself in, and suffered silently and alone until Lieutenant Ives came with the news.
Weldon showed only perfunctory interest in Sergeant Bonner’s deft and thorough search of the studio while Ives questioned him, exhibiting no relief or triumph when Bonner silently indicated his lack of success and was sent to wait in the car below. Ives followed him in a few minutes and the painter remained inert and drooping in his own chair until he heard the cars departing. Then he got up heavily and in the first release of tension kicked out savagely at some books on the floor. He threw up all the windows in the workroom, and started to pace up and down as a man might try to walk off the effects of a drug.
