by Howard Mason
“Please, Mr. Blaise.”
“I’m rather more forward today. Cassy thinks it did me good to get hit on the head. So for the record, put down that I think you’re a very beautiful girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, can I ask one question, perhaps a touchy, delicate question?”
She faced him proudly. “If you like.”
“Here goes.” He reached out for her hand and drew her unresistingly close to his chair. “What’s your racket, Miriam?”
Her eyes betrayed only momentary surprise. Then she gently took away her hand. “My, you are aggressive.”
“My theory,” said Blaise mildly, “is that if I’m going to be slugged like a private eye; well, then, why not act like one? You’re the first chance I’ve had. I repeat, what’s your racket, Miriam?”
“I presume,” she said thoughtfully, “that you’re not merely being rude, that you have some reason for talking to me this way.”
“Nothing that would make any sense,” he admitted. “A lot of people covered up for Simon Edgerton, you among them.”
“What if I did?” she asked calmly.
“Did you?” When she didn’t answer, he went on gently. “I think you did. I don’t see how Simon could have stolen any paintings without your help—at least, without being able to count on you.”
She laughed indulgently. “You came in late. When we discovered the loss Mr. Edgerton did not want to notify the police. It was I who insisted that Lieutenant Ives be called in. That was to expose myself, naturally.”
“Quite candidly,” said Blaise, “that puzzles me. Perhaps I’m stupid.”
“Let’s say,” she suggested delicately, “that you’re out on a limb.”
“Very charitable of you. But what I said still goes. If Simon stole those paintings, he must have been able to count on you somehow—I don’t care if you urge the old man to notify the Sûreté and Scotland Yard.”
“A few hours ago,” she reminded him with perfect aplomb, “you were quite positive that Simon hadn’t stolen any paintings. Now, you’re just as certain that he did, and furthermore, that I helped him.”
“Bear in mind,” said Blaise humbly, “that I was hit on the head. Hard, too. You may feel my bump, if that intrigues you.”
“I work here,” she said. “I’m responsible to Mr. Edgerton for anything I’ve done or failed to do. You should certainly tell him what you suspect at once.”
“I would,” Blaise assured her amiably, “except that it sounds so dopey.” Wistfully, he added, “I was hoping you’d confess.”
“Another time, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll feel better for it,” Blaise urged. He finished his drink and stood up, stretching wearily. “You won’t? Well, then, short of the third-degree, not that it might not be fun, I don’t see what I can do about it.” He studied the girl. For all the mockery and by-play, she had the intent, concentrated air of a fencer ready to parry attack in any position.
“If Simon stole those paintings before you came to work here, Miriam, your catalogue wouldn’t show them at all. After that, even if he could manage to lift them by himself, any check you or his father made would instantly show the theft. As indeed it did today. Simon wasn’t equipped for that kind of a strain; just plain lacked the nerve. Nerve is what counts in these coups. Some have it; others have not. You’ve got it,” he finished bluntly, “and to spare. I admire you very much.”
“I see that you do,” she murmured. “It’s comforting to know that, Mr. Blaise. I’ll certainly keep it in mind.”
“Do that,” said Blaise warmly. She started out past him, erect and dignified. He was silent until she was at the door. Then he said quietly, “A source of much concern to the police is how Simon managed to open that window”—he pointed to one of the curtained spaces—“without touching off the alarm. It indicates intimate knowledge of the premises. When they know that he was forbidden ever to be here they will be even more concerned.”
She simply nodded, as if he had given her the most casual, everyday information, and went out.
“Thanks for listening,” said Blaise.
Chapter 13
Cass was reading a magazine in the sun room of the house. She looked up as Blaise slid back the door to the beach and she got up at once when he beckoned to her.
“Want to break a law, Cassy?”
“In broad daylight?” was her astonished reply.
“Just a law,” said Blaise, “not a commandment.” She followed him to the driveway between the gallery and the residence, then behind the house to the row of garages.
“Which is Miss Wayne’s car?” he asked, and when she pointed to a neat blue sedan in one of the center stalls, he added, “Keep an eye peeled for intruders.”
“I’ll whistle the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,” she promised. “That only takes about eighteen minutes.”
“Plenty of warning,” said Blaise, as he disappeared into the garage. He looked quickly into the interior of the car, picking up the seats and replacing them, then took the keys from the ignition lock and opened the trunk. There were only the usual tools and a spare tire. He lowered the trunk lid, locked it and replaced the keys. Then he took Cass to a spot on the beach that gave him a view of the house and gallery and the driveway to the street.
“Any questions?” he asked, grinning.
“Don’t look so smug. I’m seething with curiosity, and you know it.”
“So am I, Cassy. But a bright, observant girl like you can gratify most of mine. Were Miss Wayne and Simon kicking it around?”
“In your delicate fashion, I suppose you mean was there a romance?” She went on at once. “Yes, I think so, and almost from the day she got here. It bowled me over because if ever I saw a deep-freeze dish it’s Miss Miriam Wayne.”
“I happen to know the possibilities of the quiet, brooding types,” said Blaise, “because I’m one myself.”
“When you stop talking,” said Cassy.
“Who jilted who?”
“I think it finally got too intellectual for poor Simon. And then Molly Dann came along to take the pressure off his brain. Simon and Molly were made for each other, just as Simon and Miriam definitely were not.”
“How did Miriam react to the heave-ho?”
“How does she react to anything? As far as I know, she didn’t bat an eye.”
“I think she did,” said Blaise thoughtfully. “I think she batted both eyes, and maybe more. By the way, does she live here?”
“There’s a room in the house for her. She also has a flat in Santa Monica—I don’t know just where.”
“Were you around when the inventory was being taken today, Cassy?”
“In and out. I saw Miriam and Uncle Lucas and Dr. Corum in the house once or twice, but not after they disappeared into the gallery.”
“Do you know why Dr. Corum was in on the inventory?”
“I imagine,” she answered thoughtfully, “because he understands a lot of the original records—the notebooks Uncle Lucas kept before he had a catalogue.” She looked at him curiously. “This isn’t just a tailspin, is it? What fascinates you so about the inventory?”
“Here’s a list of the missing paintings,” said Blaise. “Look it over. Read the names.”
She read them aloud: “Whistler, Renoir, Van Gogh, Sisley, Turner, Redon, Pissarro.”
“Excellent,” said Blaise. “You read very well. Do the names mean anything to you?”
She looked at the list again. “What is it—a code?”
“Don’t they all have something in common?”
She handed him the paper. “I don’t know how you got so bright suddenly, but it’s obviously not contagious.”
“The catalogue,” said Blaise, “like catalogues the world over, is in alphabetical order. When I
got here with the fake Renoir drawing about half the catalogue had been checked and nothing was missing. Then I laid down the evidence of the forgery and went away. The inventory went on into the second half of the catalogue, and now look at this list again. What these names have in common, Cassy, is that they’re all from the second half of the catalogue. No Degas, Cezanne, Manet, Corot, Lautrec—or any other painting that would have been in what had already been checked.”
The girl nodded slowly. “I think I know what you mean.”
“A smoke-screen,” said Blaise, “to distract your uncle and the police from investigation of the forgery. I don’t believe Simon stole those paintings, or any others.” He stood up. “I’m going to find out how the inventory was taken now, and while I do that, I want you to watch the gallery and give me a whistle if Miss Wayne leaves the premises.”
“All right. The Ninth Symphony again?”
“Sure. If you need an encore, try ‘Love in Bloom.’”
Chapter 14
Dr. Corum was an obliging, straightforward witness and seemed to accept Blaise as an investigator, asking no questions about the propriety of the examination. He confirmed what Cass had said, that he was asked to participate in the inventory because many of the original records of the collection were his own. The procedure followed, though complex, was thorough and efficient. He himself had checked the catalogue cards against the old, scattered records; then the cards were checked against the actual canvases. All of the missing paintings were from the vault; most were unframed, though all were mounted on stretchers for preservation.
He remembered clearly and firmly that when Blaise arrived with the Renoir drawing, “the unreasonable facsimile,” he called it wryly, the index had been checked through the letter “M” and he also verified Cassy’s recollection that the police activities in the gallery prevented any resumption that day. He himself had spent the night in town, returning for duty with the inventory squad at 9 a.m.
“Was anyone in the gallery when you arrived?” asked Blaise.
“Oh, no. It had been locked up after the police finished. Lucas had the keys and we waited for him.” At the quick, searching look Blaise darted at him, he added, “Lucas thought it best, for security, that he alone should have the keys until the inventory was quite finished. At any rate, we waited until Lucas came down at about nine-thirty and finished the inventory. Then Grandi was called in to make sure that none of the missing paintings was in the shop.”
“Was there much talk about the drawing I showed you?” asked Blaise.
“Oh, yes. We were all stunned. I wish,” sighed Dr. Corum, “that I might have had another look at it. I was jolted hard by what you told me. It rather paralyzed my optic nerve, I’m afraid.”
“I flashed it on you rather unfairly,” said Blaise placatingly. “Under normal circumstances, I’m sure you would have spotted it.”
“I’m an expert,” said Corum sadly. “I’m supposed to be one thousand percent correct all the time. The trouble is,” he added plaintively, “the forgers keep getting better all the time. And it’s most awkward when something you’re certain is genuine turns out to be a fake, and the one you’re positive is a fake turns out to be genuine. I was sued once, because a painting I certified as a Cezanne was eventually proved to have been painted by Maurice de Vlaminck.”
Blaise grinned. “Well, it was a real Vlaminck, at any rate.”
“Yes,” said Corum, “and worth a thousand dollars. As a Cezanne, it sold for twenty-six thousand. Luckily, I got out of that dilemma with a whole skin. The Cezanne signature was genuine. Someone had brought him the painting late in life and he claimed it as his own and added his signature. Since it fooled Cezanne, it wasn’t so disastrous that it also fooled me. I saw a spread on Utrillo recently. He was posed with a row of paintings, presumably his own. Some were forged, some were real. He himself was unable to do more than guess at which was which.”
Blaise laughed. “He drinks quite a bit.”
“I’ll be taken to it myself,” said Dr. Corum, “if these critical setbacks continue. To think that there should be a forger with sufficient skill and talent to produce a Renoir portrait of that period. It is staggering.”
“It staggered me,” agreed Blaise cheerfully.
“I hope,” said Dr. Corum anxiously, “that you’ll keep me advised of any further developments in that field.”
“The drawing was the vital clue,” said Blaise. “Without it I don’t know if there is much or anything I can prove. I’ve put out some feelers here and in New York. If they scoop up anything interesting I’ll let you know at once.”
Staggering was the very word to describe the mood, Blaise reflected on his way out to the beach again. What was especially staggering was that the distinguished critic and expert should have referred to a still nonexistent forgery specifically as a portrait.
Chapter 15
“Operator X reporting,” said Cassy briskly. “Stayed on post, did not fall asleep. Subject appeared in driveway over twenty minutes ago. Whistled Beethoven Ninth, switched to Schubert Unfinished, tried selections from Bach B-minor Mass. No sign of you, so followed subject up to house, trailing stealthily as taught in basic training with Brownies, Troop B, Santa Monica Patrol. Subject changed into dark-gray suit, copy of last year’s Christian Dior model with flared waist and large pockets. Subject wore with this white, candy-striped blouse, shade too flashy in my opinion, but then am not subject’s keeper. If was, would have clouted her one month ago. Subject then returned to gallery, made telephone call. Doors and windows closed, couldn’t listen. Subject then left premises in own car, empty-handed. Roger. Over.”
“Pretty fair report,” said Blaise. He pulled her to her feet from her cross-legged position on the sand. “Want to go down in the cellar with me, little girl?”
“You’re supposed to offer me candy.”
“I’m the more frugal type of sex fiend. Keep down the overhead, that’s the way to operate profitably.” He left her at the gallery door, and borrowed the keys to the gallery and the vault from Lucas Edgerton, to whom he explained that he wanted to assemble the paintings they had listed for the proposed sale. He came back to the gallery, opened the door and turned on all the lights.
“When was this added?” he asked, and Cassy said, “About eight years ago, when the insurance premiums were threatening to eat Uncle Lucas out of house, home and collection. The appraisers had the value of the collection up to about ten million and the fire and flood insurance rates out here, with no city fire department around the corner, came to a big annual bite. So it was agreed to have two separate policies—one for the paintings kept in the house, which is old-fashioned wood and stucco, burns like driftwood, and another policy on the bulk of the paintings, stored here in air-conditioned, fireproof splendor. This is all steel and concrete.
“How does the burglar alarm work?”
“Right here.” She pulled the curtains at the window nearest to the driveway door, revealing a black box with a protruding key or handle. “This is a signal to the office. The alarm goes on automatically at 6 p.m. and after that, even if the door is opened with a key, the alarm sounds at the patrol station in the city. Uncle Lucas wanders in and out of here all night long, so when the system was first installed the police were here almost every night. They finally worked out this method: within two minutes after the door is opened, a registration signal in code has to be flashed to the office. If they don’t get it, they hot-foot it out here. If they do get it, they go back to the pinochle game.”
“Very sound,” said Blaise. “Do you know the code?” When she shook her head, he added, “I suppose that eliminates Simon, too.”
“Miriam and Uncle Lucas are the only custodians. I’ve been wanting to ask,” she continued soberly, “how Simon managed it?”
“He had his own methods,” said Blaise. “The only mystery is how he learned enough about th
e system to out-guess it. You see, Cassy, the principle of the burglar alarm is to protect the premises against intruders from the outside. Each window is hooked into the alarm system. Once the window-fastening is closed, any attempt to open the catch or pry up the window sounds the tocsin. In this case, a thin staple depressed the alarm switch on one window, and when the lock was closed it slid right into place. However, when Simon opened the window, the staple held the signal button securely in place and the burglar alarm went right on clicking smoothly all the time he was going in and out.”
“Simon thought of all that,” she marveled.
“He may have had help,” said Blaise drily. He led the way to the vault and opened the double door. On the gallery side these were of stained light walnut, but the inner lining was gleaming steel. The lock was a delicate cylinder device and the heavy doors were beautifully balanced to move smoothly and to close tight. A short flight of concrete steps led down into the vault. Fluorescent light bars flickered for a moment, then blazed up brightly, flooding the underground compartment from end to end. There were eight aisles made by triple-tiered stacks, all bulging with paintings. The canvases, most of them unframed, stood on end, and thin strands of steel separated them to give each its individual compartment. The only article of furniture in the vault was a cheap, battered desk and one wooden chair. A door behind the desk opened readily when Blaise tried it and he saw a bleak lavatory.
The compartments were numbered, corresponding to the index numbers, and there was a movable ladder in each row to give access to the upper tier of shelves.
“Glad you came?” asked Cassy drily.
“Not so far.” He looked around the bare, ugly room. “Suppose you wanted to hide nine paintings in a hurry, Cassy?”
“I’m a small girl,” she said apologetically. “It would be difficult.”
“A simple way,” he mused, “might be to put them in a portion of the vault in which the inventory had already been checked.” He moved back to the steps and to the first row of shelves on the right, where the numbers began. He pulled out a canvas at random and saw that the number on the back corresponded with the number on the shelf. “Here we go, Cassy. You want the high road or the low road?”
