The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  “Drive on down the road a-piece,” said Cassy. “I will direct you and point out the homes of movie stars and places of interest as we pass them by. On your left at this moment,” she intoned, “is the refreshment stand where in 1908 Dr. Rupert Nutburger invented the delicacy which now bears his name. On your right, the Bayside Beach Club which provides outings at the seashore for rich, white American Protestants. On your left again,” she said, more demurely this time, “a motorcycle cop who is about to give you a ticket for driving without lights.”

  Chapter 18

  Andrew Kullman hated a quiet dinner. His working day was a long, taut struggle with other temperaments and the evening meal, coming close on the heels of this tension, bored him unless it maintained some equivalent level of excitement. Other hosts, faced with the same problem, fell back on after-dinner specialties that ran the gamut from chamber music to animal acts, but Kullman delighted in the subtle fanning of a feud. He conceded that this trait was mildly sadistic, though he never indulged in the practice of bringing together wives and mistresses and husbands and lovers, which delighted some jaded entertainers. But if he could invite the author of some recent book and the critic who had flayed it in last Sunday’s paper, or a new idol of the screen and the executive who had advised him to give it all up and go back to the laundry, then Kullman was the ideal picador, shrewdly planting the barbs that brought the antagonists to fighting pitch. Then, being a man of some wit and much power, he would resolve it all, leaving the contestants, if they still felt like swinging, free to go on to Mocambo or some standard arena.

  Tonight, with Jonas Astorg and Kenneth Lurie as his only dinner guests, Kullman had been anticipating only clinical chat about activities and trends in the world of art. Now he was intrigued by what Blaise had confided, and in a mood of high anticipation. He barely listened as Astorg analyzed a recent auction, explaining away the poor prices achieved by some excellent paintings.

  “Utrillo,” Astorg was saying, “has become the official painter of the decorators’ union. It is true also to some extent of Vlaminck, Dufy, Derain and some others. But the Utrillo over the fireplace must be figured in the budget of a room like the sofas or the piano and the price has nothing to do with the value of the painting—it simply reflects conditions in the decorating business.”

  Kullman smiled faintly.

  “Besides,” put in Kenneth Lurie, “faking them is right now the fourth biggest industry in France. Here, too, for all I know.”

  “Ellis Blaise is coming in later,” murmured Kullman. He looked straight down the table between his two guests, concentrating on the tall candelabra. He was rewarded by a moment of silence.

  “I didn’t know you knew Ellis,” said Astorg.

  “Nice chap,” was Lurie’s comment.

  “Did he talk to you about the paintings Edgerton is going to sell?” asked Astorg.

  Kullman considered this, and finally said, “No,” leaving it up to them to wonder just what Blaise had talked about. He was enjoying himself already. He waited until the butler, who was passing the cigars, stepped away from Astorg, and then added, “I also asked Roger Vernet to stop in for a drink. Oh, by the way, Lurie, what you said about the faking of Utrillo reminded me of something.” The match just then en route to the tip of Lurie’s cigar stopped in mid-air.

  “Yes?” asked Lurie quietly.

  Kullman was already busy with the butler. “Coffee in the library,” he was saying, “and put out enough for some extra guests.”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured the butler, and withdrew.

  Lurie was still waiting, but Kullman ignored him. “What were you saying?” the dealer asked finally.

  “About what?” was the bland reply.

  “Something I said about the faking of Utrillo reminded you of a story you wanted to tell me.”

  “Oh.” Kullman looked blank. “Well, it couldn’t have been very important.” He pushed back his chair and led the way out of the dining room. He could sense the barometer falling and, without turning to look, could project for himself the glances exchanged behind his back.

  “By the way, Lurie,” said Kullman, “did you send your chauffeur in to have some dinner?”

  “He drove into town. He’ll be back to pick me up.”

  “He could have had his dinner here,” protested the host. Then he sighed. “Perhaps it’s just as well—he frightens my cook.”

  Lurie laughed. “Sully? He isn’t exactly the English servant type, is he? To tell you the truth, in town he makes even me feel a little nervous. But on the road, when I’ve got pictures worth many thousands in the car, Sully radiates such confidence that even the insurance company is impressed.”

  The butler came in with the coffee, and while it was handed around, Blaise and Cass Edgerton arrived.

  Astorg bowed low over her hand. “You were a little girl when I used to come to your uncle’s home, Miss Edgerton.”

  “I remember. One Christmas you sent me a scooter.”

  “A slight expression of my regard,” murmured Astorg.

  “I meant to send you a thank-you note as soon as I learned to write. Still, better late than never. Thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “Gold-digger,” whispered Blaise. He left her at the coffee with the others and moved around the room, Kullman at his side, to see the paintings. Kullman’s collection was small, but, as Blaise had anticipated, chosen with great care and taste.

  Blaise stopped before a large, biting Daumier, a courtroom scene, the prisoner and the judge facing each other across the vast boundary of class which was this great French artist’s special concern. “Nice, isn’t it?” murmured Kullman. “That was the year I made a movie about an earthquake. I was always lucky with disasters. Typhoons, hurricanes, forest fires, floods, epidemics.” He turned to point out a lush, rippling Monet canvas, a stand of poplars by a shimmering lake. “That came from a film I did on the plague that swept London.”

  “I’ve got a pretty Mary Cassatt painting you’d like,” said Blaise, “and I also know a lot about Typhoid Mary. You can have a package deal.”

  “It sounds fine,” said Kullman, then went into the hall to greet two new arrivals, Molly Dann in the company of a tall, good-looking foreigner whom Kullman introduced as Roger Vernet. Vernet was all charm and good manners, but Molly Dann was fairly seething with some inner conflict. She nodded to Blaise, and curtly acknowledged her introduction to Astorg, then whirled on Kenneth Lurie.

  “Listen, Mister,” she said angrily. “You’d better keep Paul Weldon under lock and key or he’ll be taken away in a butterfly net.”

  Lurie shrugged, showing only what seemed to be honest surprise, and Molly continued angrily. “I had to chase him away from my house this afternoon, and tonight, damned if he didn’t follow Roger and me to the Beachcomber and try to start a fight there.”

  “It was nothing,” said Vernet, deprecatingly. “Believe me, Molly, I didn’t mind in the least.”

  “I did,” insisted Molly.

  “I’m only his dealer,” said Lurie, in an annoyed tone, “and not his doctor.” He turned to explain to Kullman. “He’s a young painter I handle—you’ve seen his work. I gave him a show last year and one the year before. He’s crazy about Molly.”

  “Understandably,” smiled Kullman. He handed Molly a large snifter glass, in the bottom of which was a coating of brandy. She tossed it off, while the others sat rolling their own glasses in the palms of their hands, inhaling the aroma delicately. She put the glass down on the copper sheathing of the bar and then, as she turned away, she saw Cass Edgerton for the first time.

  “Hello, Molly,” said Cass agreeably. “I wondered when you were going to notice me.”

  “I’m sorry,” muttered Molly. She accepted mechanically the fresh glass Kullman handed her. “I shouldn’t have come tearing in like that.” She was groping f
or some expression of condolence or sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “Thanks, Molly.” Cassy reached for her purse. “I’m off to the boudoir. Shall we show them that girls know how to stick together?”

  “Sure,” said Molly.

  The men rose as the two girls went out. Kullman’s butler moved from cup to cup with fresh coffee and Roger Vernet exchanged some polite phrases in French with Jonas Astorg. The dealer inquired about his family and Vernet, thanking him a thousand times for the goodness of his concern, was happy to assure him that mother and father had resettled in the family apartment in Paris and that all went well.

  “Oh, Lurie,” said Kullman, when this interchange was over. He was leaning against the mantelpiece with Astorg and Vernet on his right, Lurie and Blaise at his left.

  “Yes, Andrew?” the dealer queried politely.

  “I remember now what it was I wanted to say when you were talking about the fake Utrillos. It was a story Blaise told me yesterday.”

  Lurie’s eyes met Astorg’s briefly, then fell away. He turned to Blaise. “Really?”

  Blaise nodded. “The Renoir drawing I showed you yesterday was a forgery.”

  Lurie was obviously taken aback. “How can that be? True, I only saw it for a minute, but it was marvelous—perfect.” He looked across at Astorg. “Don’t you agree, Jonas?”

  Astorg said, “Go on, Blaise.”

  “Not much more to tell. Lurie’s right. The drawing was perfect. With a microscope and an enlarger you might have found flaws, but maybe not even then. As far as what was on the paper, it was a Renoir. But the paper itself was the dead giveaway. Modern paper, made right here in Los Angeles.”

  There was a hush, broken by Kullman. “Here’s to crime,” he offered cheerfully.

  “Well, then,” said Lurie, “it exposes itself. No question that it is a forgery.”

  “Not to me,” said Blaise. “Unfortunately, it is lost. After I checked the paper, I telephoned the police. Then I went to my hotel and someone was waiting for me. I was knocked out and relieved of the drawing.”

  “In his hotel, mind you,” emphasized Kullman. “In the room right next to yours, Jonas.”

  Astorg was pale and even in the shadowy light Blaise thought he saw veins on his face and forehead that were visible for the first time.

  “You’ve got the makings of a real thriller there,” said Lurie.

  “I thought so at the time. I’m not so sure it impressed the police.”

  The discussion was diverted as Molly and Cass came back into the room. A cozy powder-room chat had done a lot to restore Molly’s hearty good nature, and she now spoke pleasantly to all.

  “We’re talking about forgery,” said Kullman gaily. “What do you think, Astorg—is it confined to Renoir, or is it possible that everything we own is just as false?”

  At the mention of Renoir, Molly turned to stare at Blaise. He smiled reassuringly, and after an instant she looked away.

  “You, too, Roger,” said Kullman to the young Frenchman. “You’d better have another look at that lovely Renoir still life. Chances are you’ll find the canvas was made in Jersey City within the year.”

  “I doubt it,” said Vernet, smiling coolly. “You see, the painting has been in my family for many years. Besides, paints and pigments are my own business. You would be surprised,” he went on, twinkling, “at the number of forgeries I myself have exposed.”

  “I’m sure I would,” replied Blaise.

  Vernet was warming to a subject he obviously knew well. “Every great painter has had his own unique way of blending his colors. Those methods are known today.”

  Blaise nodded, interrupting. “Yes, deWild’s Chronological Tables of Pigment. If you find zinc white in a Raphael, you just look in the book and it tells you that zinc white was not used until many years later.”

  “Maybe Raphael was ahead of his time,” said Cassy. Roger Vernet was a little annoyed, and Kullman fanned it by saying, “Is that your method of disclosing forgery, Roger?”

  “Certainly not,” snapped Vernet. “Naturally, forgers are skilled technicians. However, another means of identification is the age of the paint itself. It used to be that when a faked painting was being prepared the cracks would actually be drawn into the canvas with a sharp instrument. But that was clumsy, and comparatively easy to detect. Then the fakers learned how to cover the paint with a lacquer that would burn off under heat and crack the painting underneath just as naturally as years of exposure to light and atmosphere. Even that,” and he smiled blandly, “can be proven false in the laboratory. Under the surface of the painting is the gesso, the plaster surface with which the artist prepared his canvas, and that is what finally determines the experts’ opinion.”

  “Suppose the forger uses an old painting with an old, cracked gesso?” asked Blaise. “Then what finally determines the expert opinion?”

  Vernet indulged himself in an impatient gesture. “Technically, such a forgery might present difficulties. There are still other devices available, however. One of them, or the sum of all, finally decides between the true and the false.”

  Blaise saw that Kullman was looking at him expectantly. “That’s all very true,” he said amiably to Vernet. “In the last analysis, it’s the experts who decide.”

  Vernet accepted this as a victory. “Thank you,” he said blandly.

  Blaise smiled. “What’s the rarest, most expensive painting a man might decide to buy, Mr. Vernet?”

  The young Frenchman hesitated. “An authentic Giorgone,” he said finally.

  “No doubt about it,” said Blaise. “How many such paintings exist today?”

  Vernet shrugged. “Perhaps six in all.”

  “You may be right,” said Blaise. “At any rate, it is an expert opinion, and a good one. However, some authorities, having examined all the disputed canvases, say there are forty. Another expert insists there are only fifteen. Another great critic puts the number at eight, and a truly distinguished expert maintains that only one of the paintings attributed to Giorgone was actually and entirely painted by him. All of these experts have access to the same information, scientific apparatus and history books.”

  “So much for expert opinion,” said Kullman cheerfully.

  “The thing to remember,” said Blaise, “is that the books about how the masters mixed their paints and prepared their canvases are not sold only to experts. In New York, or any big city, anyone with a library card can find out just what made up Renoir’s palette.”

  “You’re wide of the mark,” said Kullman delicately. “This started out as a discussion of Vernet’s painting, something that’s been in his family for many years. Probably acquired from Renoir himself.”

  “Perhaps,” said Vernet pleasantly. The heat aroused in him by the discussion was giving way now to smooth, mannered charm. “Renoir mentions the painting—a large still life—in a letter to his dealer. By the way,” he added, turning again to Blaise, “the letter is quite genuine.”

  Blaise laughed. “I’m sure of it.”

  “My grandfather,” continued Vernet, “knew most of the Impressionists intimately. He acquired many examples of their work. This canvas was found by a member of my family in Grandfather’s house in the country. He may have bought it at a time when Renoir had no reputation, and it was forgotten.”

  “You ought to show it to Blaise,” urged Kullman. “He might pass it on to Lucas Edgerton.”

  Before Vernet could answer, Kenneth Lurie said, “Not if it’s that early. Edgerton doesn’t care for those.”

  “Who said it was early?” demanded Astorg.

  Lurie hesitated, but only for a moment. “He just said, Jonas, that it was bought before Renoir had a reputation.” He said this gently, as if to a backward child.

  As Astorg subsided, Blaise said, “I’d like to see the painting.”


  “Of course,” said Vernet. “At the moment a customer has it, but in a day or two I’ll be delighted to show it to you.”

  “Count me in,” said Astorg heavily. Then he turned to Blaise. “You say the police do not credit your story about the forgeries?”

  “Forgery,” said Blaise. “Singular. That’s all I know so far.” He smiled at Astorg, who received the correction with a nod of his head. “Lieutenant Ives is a smart man,” Blaise continued, “but this must be a little out of his line. I don’t think, for instance, that he can quite conceive of the profits such a forger might pile up. If he had the proper connections.”

  “Yes,” said Astorg soberly. “That would be of the utmost importance.”

  “Don’t sound so grim,” said Lurie brightly. “It isn’t threatening the foundations of art yet. I don’t mean to belittle what you say, Blaise; I’m sure it’s all true.”

  “I may be taking it too seriously,” assented Blaise readily. He yielded at once to Kullman’s proposal that he see the rest of the collection, and as the host went on ahead to light up, he found himself standing with Cass and Molly Dann.

  Molly took the other girl’s presence for granted. “The cop told me about the drawing. I figured there must be some reason why you didn’t want to say you got it from me in there.” She inclined her head, indicating the men in the other room.

  “Just playing it safe. If somebody has to be conked I might as well be target for tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  The others came drifting in. Kullman beckoned from the hall, asking them to see a painting on the winding staircase, and Blaise hung back as he saw Astorg slow his steps to match.

  “I brought in two early Renoirs this year,” said Astorg in a low voice.

  “I know.”

  “Both unknown, but mentioned in correspondence or history. From a very reliable source, Blaise—extremely reliable.”

  Blaise grinned. “Still think so?”

  Kenneth Lurie turned in the doorway to wait for their lagging steps to bring them up to the group, and in Astorg’s eyes, as he regarded his West Coast associate, was frigid, piercing hatred. “I was just mentioning to Blaise,” he said in a flat, colorless undertone, “about my own Renoirs.”