by Howard Mason
Later, when his nerves quieted, he started to work, but it went badly and the broken brushes on the floor around the easel were the result of his jittery impatience. He made repeated telephone calls to Molly Dann, but there was no reply. At noon he poured himself the first drink of the day. The bottle was nearly full and he laid out a rationing scheme that would give him just enough to keep his nerves under control for working. He went back to pacing the floor, read last week’s magazines and stared out the window until the middle of the afternoon. He had given himself one extra drink by that time and was about to abandon his self-imposed discipline and kill the bottle quickly when Molly arrived.
Some sleep had restored her fresh, dark beauty, but she was listless and apathetic.
“I didn’t think you’d come today, Molly,” said Weldon tentatively, as if the subject frightened him.
“Neither did I.” She glanced at the bottle, then at the broken brushes on the floor. “Are you getting boiled?”
“I was upset. The police were here.”
“I know.” After a moment she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t even remember how your name came up. That cop—Ives—he’s smart. He’s so damn polite and easygoing. I hope it didn’t make any trouble.”
“Oh, no,” said Weldon quickly. “I don’t mind.” As she slipped out of her coat he moved up to take it and stood close to her. “Thanks for coming in today, Molly. Thanks a lot.”
“I got jumpy, too,” said Molly uncomfortably. She stepped away from him. Weldon looked crushed for an instant, then moved to the closet with her coat.
“Feel like working?” the girl asked listlessly.
“Might as well.”
She nodded and kicked off her shoes. Then she sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette. Pulling her dress up, she groped for the garter fastenings, then slid the stockings down on each leg. “I’d like to go away,” she said, in a reflective tone, as if it were more a thought than a statement. “I’d like to go away,” she repeated. “That’s all I seem to be able to think of today.” She reached up and behind her to pull the zipper of the dress. “I had a funny sort of reaction to this business about Simon. It knocked the wind out of me somehow. I’m not sure how or why.”
Weldon had been shaking tubes of paint out of a card-board box. “Were you in love with him, Molly?” he asked.
“We had a lot of laughs,” she said simply. “Maybe I was in love with him and wouldn’t let myself think it because he certainly wasn’t in love with me. But we did have a lot of laughs. I liked him a lot.”
“I know you did,” said Weldon. As Molly started to the bedroom in her slip, carrying the dress and shoes in both hands, he reached out and caught her bare arm. “Come away with me, Molly. I’ve got money. I’ve got quite a lot—more than you think. I’ll take you to Mexico, or to Europe—anywhere you say.”
“Thanks, Paul. We’ll talk about it.”
“I mean it, Molly. You can trust me—I’ll take good care of you.”
“I know. We’ll talk about it.”
Then the doorbell rang in sharp, jagged bursts, as if someone was jabbing at it fretfully.
“Who’s that?” asked Molly.
“I don’t know,” said Weldon. He pushed the release button for the lock on the door below. He waited until Molly was in the bedroom and the door was closed, then opened the studio door.
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs and he backed away as Kenneth Lurie filled the low doorway, scowling angrily at the painter. Weldon gestured nervously to the open bedroom door just as Molly appeared in one of his own terrycloth robes.
“I was just starting to work,” explained Weldon.
“Beat it,” said Lurie to the girl, and at her angry stare he turned to Weldon. “Get rid of her. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Who the hell are you to give orders?” demanded Molly. She took a step into the room.
“Couldn’t we go somewhere?” asked Weldon uneasily. “Molly just got here, and…”
“I told you to get her out of here,” said Lurie, and with that he turned his back, elaborately examining the books on the built-in shelves at the front of the room. Weldon turned back to Molly with a pained, unhappy smile. “I’m sorry,” he said uncomfortably.
“The Lord and Master, eh?” Molly looked at him contemptuously.
“It’s business,” pleaded Weldon. “It’s about a show.” He started toward the bedroom, but Molly backed away and slammed the bathroom door in his face.
Weldon sat down near the easel and stared at the floor. Lurie continued to examine the books until Molly emerged, fully dressed. Weldon didn’t look up, nor did Lurie turn around.
“What is it?” asked Molly curiously. “A lovers’ quarrel?” She stopped near Lurie at the door. “A big boy like you,” she added reproachfully.
Lurie lifted his heavy black shoe. “That caboose makes quite a target, Molly. Want me to help you down the stairs?”
“Want to try?” she asked defiantly.
Weldon stepped between them quickly. “Please, Molly!” As she opened the door, he said, “I’ll call you later.”
“Do that,” said Molly cordially, and smacked his face with her open hand. Then she went quickly down the stairs.
Lurie closed the door and Weldon, who was rubbing his cheek, heard the click of the lock. He looked up hastily. “What’s the matter?”
“She’s a bright girl in some ways,” said Lurie thoughtfully. “Full of good ideas.” His right fist flashed up, landing heavily on Weldon’s jaw, knocking him over backwards. The painter skittered across the floor, the easel and the fresh canvas crashing down with him. Before he could move, Lurie was over him. His big hand gripped Weldon by the collar, yanking him to his feet. He let go of his collar then, and Weldon, his hands crossed over his face, staggered back with Lurie stalking him step by step. Weldon came up against a chair and Lurie pushed him down into it savagely. As the painter looked up at him fearfully, Lurie waggled his fist. “Now, you cheap crook, either you come clean with me or I’ll break everything on you that’s worth breaking.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stuttered Weldon. “What is it?”
“Ellis Blaise showed me a drawing today. One of yours. Where did he get it?”
“Who?” This was almost a scream and its high-pitched sincerity seemed to register on the other man. “I don’t know anybody by that name. I didn’t give anybody any drawings. I burned them all.” Lurie stepped away, as if for a better look at him and Weldon continued pleadingly, “I haven’t made any drawings. Not any real ones. I did a lot for practice. I had to do those all the time when I was working out the compositions but they were all on cheap paper. I couldn’t sell them that way. I burned them all.”
The dealer’s taut facial muscles relaxed. He brought the bottle of whiskey and a glass, then poured a drink for Weldon and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” muttered Weldon. He gulped down the whiskey, and as Lurie offered him the bottle he shook his head. “I’m all right now.”
“Good. Now listen carefully. I know you had to make a lot of practice drawings. Did anyone—anyone at all—ever see you doing them?” When the artist shook his head, he said, “Now, did you keep count of how many you made?”
“That’s crazy. I must have done thousands.”
“I mean, each time that you worked at it?”
Weldon shook his head. “I’d keep them all together while I worked, then burn them.”
“But if you were called out, or went out for a drink or a meal, or answered the phone?”
“I kept some,” said Weldon automatically, and at the darkening glower on the dealer’s face, he added shrilly, “For Christ’s sake! I had to! That’s how I worked out the composition. I had to work from something. I couldn’t use a model.”
“I understand,” said Lurie mildly, though
it cost him an effort. “Do you remember one in pencil and charcoal, a reclining figure, half nude?”
Weldon shrugged. “I did hundreds of them. Not many that were half-nudes, though,” he added, in a troubled tone. “I did a few of those because I had to practice the drape and hang of the material.”
“Do you remember when you did those?”
“Not at any special time. Off and on for perhaps a few months.” He got up unsteadily, shaking his head as if to clear it, and reached for the bottle again. Lurie waited patiently until he poured himself a drink and tossed it off.
“The drawings you kept to work from—were they locked up?”
“I’m not a fool,” said Weldon.
“Show me,” said Lurie.
Weldon went into the bedroom, Lurie at his heels. This was a pine-paneled room with a wide, low bed. Beside the bed stood a circular night table with a heavy, metal lamp. The table was patterned after a revolving bookstand with shelves about twelve inches deep. Weldon lifted the lamp and put it on the floor. Then he reached into the top shelf and the apparently solid table-top opened, revealing a deep, hollow cylinder.
“I made this myself,” said Weldon sullenly. “Nobody ever knew it was there.”
Lurie bent over the table, peering into the opening. There were tubes and pots of paint and jars of liquid that gave off a slight order of varnish or something similar. When the dealer straightened up, Weldon snapped the top shut and replaced the lamp.
“Who is the fellow you said had one of the drawings?” asked Weldon, following the dealer into the studio again.
“Ellis Blaise. He’s a dealer in New York. He works for Lucas Edgerton.”
“Any idea how he got it?”
Lurie shrugged. “A woman—someone out here—gave it to him to sell.”
Weldon giggled, but at the other’s sharp look his nervous mirth broke off abruptly. “I was only thinking,” he said apologetically, “you should have bought it.”
“I tried to,” said Lurie irritably. “How easy will it be to detect the quality of the paper?”
“Maybe right away—maybe never. It’s quite a bit heavier than old paper. Lighter in tone, too. Depends on what you’re looking for when you examine it.”
“I only saw it for a couple of minutes,” Lurie told him. “It seemed fine.”
“The drawing is perfect,” said Weldon smugly. “The giveaway is in the paper. Hell, if he holds it to the light he’ll see a water-mark.”
“If it comes to that,” said Lurie grimly, “I’ll put a water-mark on you.” The painter began to whine some protest, and Lurie snapped, “Shut up. This one drawing may ruin me.” His cold, menacing glare held Weldon’s gaze. “You sniveling, blubber-headed drunk. You probably passed out here and left the room plastered with drawings. Suppose somebody wandered in from the street?” He seemed to be pondering this distasteful eventuality, then briskly, he said, “All right. There may be some snooping set off now. Maybe the police, maybe this man Blaise. Be careful.”
Weldon nodded. “Want me to get rid of all the paints and chemicals?”
“No,” said Lurie. “I think they’re safe where they are. I may have a job for you.”
He went out and down the stairs to the street. He quickly walked the two blocks to the Boulevard, where his car was discreetly parked in a public lot. He drove to the beginning of the Strip and turned off into a narrow street. He went into a seedy bar, kept dark by day and night for the maximum pleasure of watching the television set high in one corner. Lurie bought a drink at the bar and, after a quick look around, borrowed an afternoon paper from the bartender and carried that and his drink to the last booth. After ten or fifteen minutes there was a new arrival, a compact heavy-set man about forty. A broken nose and spots of scar tissue on his face made him singularly ugly, but he carried his weight with an athlete’s grace.
Lurie leaned out of the booth and the newcomer quickened his steps. Lurie pointed to the opposite seat. “Sit down, Sully.”
Sully glanced back over his shoulder, then shook his head. “Move over, Boss. Let’s watch the door.”
Lurie obediently slid over in the booth and Sully sat down beside him. He unbuttoned his tight brown double breasted jacket and gave Lurie a glimpse of the paper tube jammed down in the waistband of his trousers. He smiled at Lurie’s manifest delight. “It was easy,” he said, in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. With a cautious glance at the front of the room, he fished out the tube and passed it to Lurie. “It’s a lousy picture,” he said. “The broad ain’t even all bare. Sure it was worth the trouble?”
“Positive,” said Lurie happily. “Have a drink, Sully.”
Chapter 11
“This morning,” said Lieutenant Ives, “I thought you were a pleasant sort of a chap, with sense enough to mind his own business. Now this cockeyed story convinces me I was wrong. You had no right to start nosing around, and the girl had no right to hold the drawing out on me to turn it over to you.”
“You must have a badge for a heart,” said Blaise irritably. The doctor had given him some pills, but his head still ached. “She didn’t give it to you because she thought maybe her boyfriend had stolen it. She didn’t want to cash in on it; she just wanted to spare his family any extra scandal if it was hot. Personally, I think that makes her a pretty nice girl.” He sat up and reached for the cigarettes. “As for me, it’s true that I picked up a piece of information, but I didn’t go into business for myself with it. I called you as soon as I knew what it was. Suppose Molly had given you the drawing? Would you have known it was a forgery?”
“In time,” said Ives.
“Sure. Maybe three weeks from now.”
“Maybe six weeks, maybe a year. But we’d still have it.”
Blaise leaned back against the cushions. “Touché,” he murmured.
“Did Simon say why he was leaving it with the girl?” asked Ives.
“He said it was too valuable to be lugged around. Want to hear a hypothetical case?”
“Sure,” said Ives. “Does it make any sense at all?”
“We’ll see.” Blaise sat up and swung his feet off the bed. The pills were working now and only a dull, vague ache remained. “The first thing you’ve got to realize, Lieutenant, is that faking great art is a big business. It’s been going on ever since paintings and sculptures became valuable, and that’s been quite a time now.”
“I’m a cop,” said Ives impatiently. “You don’t have to start back in the Renaissance. Get to it.”
“Coming. Painters learn a lot by copying. That’s not important because you can’t sell copies, but every once in a while a student or a painter realizes a technical affinity with the artist he’s copying. A little practice and he finds he can turn out a very creditable imitation. For the next step, maybe he studies the composition of the master and makes one up along the same lines. Painters are human beings, with families, responsibilities and a natural desire to have a little tucked away in the bank. The style becomes grooved and the subjects standardized in whatever form the dealers and the public like the most. It’s not just commercial art—it’s usually an extension of some subject the artist is really passionate about. Utrillo’s streets of Paris; Degas’ ballet girls; Pissarro’s landscapes; Daumier’s courtrooms, laborers and riff-raff. Well, take an imitator with a strong technical talent, who’s probably an intelligent painter in his own right, he can usually turn out a first-class forgery.”
“Sure. But there must be ways of spotting them.”
“Right. Usually, the terrific strain of imitating another painter’s style is a dead giveaway. The eye alone spots the labored, tedious application of the paint. If it can’t, the X-ray and the microscope show it up at once. But you know the criminal mind, Lieutenant. How soon after someone invents a burglar-proof safe does a thief go a step further and by-pass it?”
“Pretty soon,”
said Ives. “They get better all the time.”
“Then add the ego of an artist to the natural crooked competitive streak in such a character and you’ll get a refinement of the type that sets out to beat the burglar-proof safe. The first thing the modern expert looks for in any forgery is to see if this specimen is in the natural hand of the supposed author or artist. Some great fakers have beaten that test by simple patience and practice, endless repetition of subjects in the assumed style until their forgeries are entirely natural.
“The next step is the canvas and the paint itself,” continued Blaise. “Both are actually simple. The canvas is usually an obscure painting of the same period, stripped down to the original material. The paints are mixed by hand from materials used in the original artist’s time, in exactly the same proportions. Chemical analysis won’t show a speck of difference between the artist’s mixture and the forger’s.”
“How do you tell the real thing?” asked Ives skeptically.
“Luckily, that kind of forgery is rare. But it happens, and when it does, it can be very rough on the experts. The best guarantee, of course, is the history of the painting. The happy hunting ground for the forger is the collector looking for a bargain who is romantic enough to swallow a yarn about a masterpiece that languished in some eccentric’s attic for decades. That’s when all the tedious and expensive preparation pays off.”
“Very interesting,” said Ives, “but if this doesn’t tie up with the death of Simon Edgerton, I’d just as soon you told it to the Bunko squad. It’s a little out of my line.”
“That’s next,” Blaise assured him. “Simon Edgerton needed money. His father’s collection must have seemed like buried treasure to a poor man with a shovel, and it has some great advantages for a dishonest dealer or collector. First, all the paintings were bought years ago and dropped out of sight at once. The old man has never exhibited them or allowed them to be reproduced. Second, until very recently there was nothing like a catalogue of the collection; just scattered notes and the old man’s memory. Third, Edgerton is getting old, doesn’t get around much, hardly ever looks at any paintings but his own. Even at his nerviest, all Simon had the guts to steal were a few cheap drawings—in my hypothetical case he doesn’t steal a thing but collects exactly as much as if he did. All profit, no risk.”
