The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  Lurie’s smile was as meaningless as a mask held in an outstretched hand. “You picked the right man,” he said. “Just the right man.”

  There were outstanding canvases hung along the sweep of the wide staircase and the upstairs hall, but Blaise found himself making casual, banal acknowledgments of them while he tried to digest the relationship between the two dealers, and, again, the role of the smooth Roger Vernet. Kullman seemed to understand his preoccupation, and as they wound their way downstairs again, he whispered an invitation to come back when there was less on his mind.

  The arrangement of the paintings in Kullman’s house was beautifully planned so that the guests finished the tour confronted by the front door and the butler standing in readiness at the coat closet. The house was only slightly set back from the quiet street and Blaise’s car, with the others, was parked outside.

  “I take it,” said Cassy, as they went down the driveway to the street, “that the mumbo-jumbo about forgery was the principal business of the evening.”

  “Obvious, wasn’t it?”

  “Except for the fact that I didn’t understand a word—yes.”

  Blaise helped her into the car. “The explanation will be forthcoming. Not only that, but one of the principals involved will supply it, and if I so stipulate, will bring it to me all written out on vellum, with hand-illuminated borders and in a rich binding. Thieves are about to fall out, Cassy. My job is to avoid being hit by a body.” As he started the car, he added, “Present company excepted.”

  He edged away from the curb, and as he headed to the corner Cassy said, “These streets run around in circles. The one you want is Hillcliff Drive.”

  Blaise obediently turned on the spotlight, manipulating the beam to catch the narrow street-sign, and as he tilted the light it played across a man walking swiftly up the block toward the Kullman house. It was nobody he knew, but Cassy caught his arm.

  “That’s Paul Weldon,” she said. “The fellow Molly said was making all that trouble tonight.”

  Blaise was half way across the intersection but he slammed on the brakes and leaned out to look back at the group of people still standing near their cars outside Kullman’s house. He made the turn quickly and started back, jumping out of the car just as Weldon moved up out of the dark and clutched at Molly’s arm. Weldon, a frail man, was so obviously drunk that he may have wanted only support to keep from falling, and Molly’s reaction was more irritation than fright.

  “For Christ’s sake! How did you get out here?”

  “Got to talk to you, Molly,” said Weldon thickly, and as Vernet tried to pull him away he clung to the girl’s arm. “None o’ your business,” he muttered. “Got to talk to Molly.”

  “Go on home,” said Molly wearily. Vernet had succeeded in detaching Weldon now and held him off at arm’s length. He was not a difficult target, or one likely to put up much fight, and Vernet’s free hand was obviously cocked for the blow. “Don’t hit him,” said Molly. “He’s too drunk to be any trouble.”

  Astorg was still standing in the driveway, near Lurie’s car, alone now because the other dealer had moved up to the scene of conflict.

  “Paul!” Lurie’s voice snapped like a whip. He stepped up as Vernet reluctantly let go. Weldon slid a little but remained upright, peering at the newcomer in the uncertain light.

  “Oh. Oh, it’s you.” Then aware of the others, he said plaintively, “What’s the matter with everybody? I came to talk to Molly. Don’t want to talk to anybody else.”

  Lurie’s chauffeur had come down from the car and now approached the group with quick, light steps. “Wait a minute, Sully,” said his employer. “We’ll take Mr. Weldon home.”

  “No.” Weldon ducked under Lurie’s arm and made for Molly again. “Don’t want to go with you. And don’t anybody get tough with me because…”

  That was as far as he got. Lurie swung him around easily and as he was still turning clipped him on the jaw so deftly that every movement could be followed at leisure like the slow-motion film of a fight. Weldon sagged and the chauffeur, Sully, caught him before he could fall.

  “Very neat,” said Blaise, admiringly. “Do you two work together?”

  “Put him in the car,” Lurie directed his man.

  “Oh, hell,” said Molly, in a troubled voice. “Why’d you have to do that?”

  “You held me responsible for bothering you before,” said Lurie, quite formally. “In any case, I barely touched him. He was just about ready to pass out.” He turned to Astorg, who had come up as Sully retired the supine painter. “We’ll take the boy home, Jonas. It just means a detour to drop him off.”

  “I’ll go with Blaise,” was Astorg’s reply.

  Lurie looked at him steadily for a moment, the fingers of his right hand opening and closing mechanically. “Very well,” he said mildly.

  It was for the most part a silent ride to the Ocean Inn. Astorg replied with a curt negative when Blaise asked him if he knew Paul Weldon at all and didn’t seem interested when Cassy said that she had met him with Simon. At the door of the hotel he got out quickly, and after a vague and absent promise to call Blaise in the morning, trudged into the lobby still deep in thought.

  When they were on the highway again, Cassy asked, “Do you still expect it all written out on vellum, in a rich binding?”

  “More than ever.”

  “From Jonas Astorg?”

  “In collaboration with a person or persons unknown.” He reached down on the seat with his free hand, found Cassy’s and covered it with his own. “A special providence watches over honest art dealers, Cassy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” was her modest reply. “I daresay I have faults like other girls.”

  “One of them,” said Blaise, “is your brazen assumption that I’m referring to you.” He pulled her closer to him on the seat and she slid across and put her head on his shoulder. “What all-seeing providence has decreed,” he continued, “is that it takes quite a cast of characters to turn a great forgery into ready money. If it was a game that one or two could play, it could go on indefinitely. Not that I’m against games that two can play,” he hastened to assure her, and she smiled up at him. “Not even if they go on indefinitely.”

  She nodded sleepily on his shoulder. “Check.”

  “Are you going to sleep, Cassy?”

  She shook her head, though her eyes remained shut. “Just looking serene. It’s one of my best looks.”

  “Very effective. Do you have to do it with your eyes closed?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “I’ve never driven up here at night. I’m not sure I know where to turn off to get to the house.”

  A slow smile mingled with her serene look. “Drive on,” she said softly.

  Chapter 19

  Consciousness came filtering back to Paul Weldon, bits of detail leaping into focus so that he knew he was on the couch in his studio. His head ached, his mouth and jaw hurt and as he was groping for the cause of these assorted throbbings he saw the grim countenance of Lurie’s chauffeur, Sully.

  “Hiya, boy?” was Sully’s friendly greeting.

  Weldon sat up, not without some groans as the excursion into a higher altitude set the pains dancing in his head. He licked dry lips. “Did you beat me up?” he demanded.

  Sully looked pained. “You call that gettin’ beat up? Sure, I popped you one or two,” he conceded, “but they were mercy punches. So you wouldn’t hurt yourself bouncin’ around. So you’d lay still, and take it easy.”

  “Thanks,” was Weldon’s bitter comment.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Weldon swung his feet off the couch. Sully continued to watch him dispassionately from the window seat. As Weldon got to his feet the chauffeur seemed to stiffen a bit, as if for action, but when Weldon staggered toward the bathroom and bedroom he relaxed again. Weld
on stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment, then uttered a shrill cry of alarm and dashed inside. Sully stood up, stretching luxuriously, and followed him.

  Weldon was on his knees beside the circular night table. The lamp had been removed and the concealed compartment yawned. Weldon had both hands in the cylinder and was groping around, but his anguished contorted face revealed that the cupboard was bare.

  “Mr. Lurie took the stuff you had there,” said Sully quietly from the doorway.

  Weldon turned, still on his knees. “Why?”

  With a gesture of complete boredom, Sully drawled, “He said you wasn’t trustworthy.” Apologetically, he added, “You know me, kid—I don’t mix in.”

  “I want to see him,” said Weldon hotly.

  “You’ll see him. Believe me, you’ll see him.”

  “He took my money. I don’t care about the paints and the other stuff, but he took my money. I want it.”

  “Just relax,” was Sully’s amiable advice. For all the friendship he exuded, however, he took pains to stand so that he filled the doorway.

  Weldon was seething. It was as if the discovery of his loss had shocked him out of his hangover, and the attendant ills, and given him new strength and courage. He realized now that Sully’s function was that of a guard, but he faced him staunchly.

  “Get out of the way, Sully.”

  The chauffeur smiled. “Take it easy. If the boss took your dough there must be a good reason for it. He’s probably keepin’ it safe, or”—he chuckled delightedly—“maybe he fined you for disorderly conduct.” He didn’t even deign to move as Weldon swung at him but blocked the blow negligently with his forearm. He expressed only mild disapproval as Weldon lashed out again, once more ineffectually, and then with the cool detachment of a doctor administering an anesthetic, struck one blow that jolted Weldon’s head back. The painter, his eyes glazed, took a series of funny little backward steps, then crumpled.

  Sully picked him up easily, dropped him on the day-bed and fished for a cigarette. By the time he lit it and had taken a few puffs Weldon’s eyes were open and he was stirring uncertainly. Sully looked down at him sympathetically.

  “Got the fight out of your system?”

  Weldon nodded weakly.

  “Good boy,” Sully complimented him. “You ain’t the fightin’ type,” he went on critically. “You’d only wind up with all your insides scrambled and you wouldn’t even be givin’ me a workout.”

  Weldon nodded again, conceding the truth of all this. He pulled himself to the side of the bed, sitting up with his feet on the floor.

  “Here,” said Sully, offering him the cigarette.

  Weldon reached for it, muttering “Thanks.” As he took the cigarette, it fell from his trembling fingers to the carpet and in his fuzzy state he didn’t even seem to be aware of this.

  “For Christ’s sake!” muttered Sully. “You’ll have the joint on fire.” He dropped to his knees, his head down to look for the cigarette, and then Weldon’s right foot lashed out, the heel of his heavy shoe catching Sully right on the temple. The chauffeur brought his head up, his expression one of intense pain at such a betrayal and Weldon kicked him again. Sully toppled over and lay still.

  Weldon picked up the cigarette and took a puff he seemed to enjoy immensely.

  Chapter 20

  Given something to go on, Lieutenant Ives was a very efficient and methodical man. The hunt for Hugh Norden had fanned out through all of California and the adjoining states and territories, and there was little he could do about this except to alert outlying officials at whatever points he could pick up a trace of the vanished dealer. Norden was alive and well, he knew that much, and probably prosperous. He was no longer wearing his heavy, prismatic glasses, which seemed incredible when the Lieutenant ran down Norden’s doctor and saw the limits of vision which had to be corrected, but a flyer to neighboring towns revealed that Norden had been fitted for contact lenses within the year. He had secured these under another name, apparently realizing how handy they might be for masquerades and getaways. The Lieutenant also knew by now that Norden had shaved off his mustache and exactly what clothes and luggage he had bought up and down the coast to replace those abandoned in flight. He was able to bring the description up to date and to provide a new picture. Barring luck and accidents, he had to sit back and wait.

  The nine paintings missing from the Edgerton collection were also tangibles, and armed with descriptions and specifications that included even the exact nature of the customs stamps, Lieutenant Ives was making certain that none of these had yet changed hands and that the art world had a guard mounted if they emerged.

  His own aide, Sergeant Bonner, was methodically canvassing dealers and collectors in the Los Angeles area, phoning in from time to time to report and to ask instructions. This part of the investigation was nearly over. Like every other avenue Ives had traveled in the case, it was rapidly closing to a dead end, and the Lieutenant was now framing the patter he would employ in reporting to his chief.

  When the phone rang, expecting the worst, Ives picked it up gingerly. “Lieutenant Ives,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Bonner talking,” said the Sergeant, and Ives knew at once that Bonner was not just reporting another succession of failures. “I’m down at Mazurin’s. It’s a little art gallery on Seventh Street. Nothing on the paintings, Lieutenant, but get this: Mazurin does framing for Paul Weldon—remember, Lieutenant, the painter?”

  “Yes, of course,” snapped Ives.

  “Mazurin heard the news about Simon Edgerton on one of the all-night radio programs, sometime between 4:30 and 5 in the morning. He got all excited and telephoned Weldon because Weldon and the Edgerton boy were friends, or knew each other. Weldon wasn’t home. Mazurin says he tried him twice again, up to six in the morning—never got him.”

  Ives was standing up. “I’m on my way to Weldon’s now, Bonner. Meet me there.” He hung up, shouted for his car, and in a matter of minutes was racing across town to Hollywood.

  The studio was deserted and Weldon’s car was gone. While waiting for Bonner, Ives telephoned to Molly Dann, and after her denial of any knowledge of the painter’s whereabouts, he listened thoughtfully while she reported the doings of the night before.

  Bonner came in as he finished his talk with Molly and he left the Sergeant to put a man on guard at the studio and to supervise the details of getting a description of Weldon and his car on the police radio. He himself drove downtown to the Kenneth Lurie Gallery and was promptly taken inside.

  “Molly embarrassed me last night,” said the dealer slowly. “She made it appear that I was somehow responsible for Weldon’s behavior.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was annoyed when he came to Kullman’s house and tried to make another scene. First I tried to talk him into coming home but he had his heart set on sticking with Molly. I hit him, finally. Then my chauffeur and I got him into my car and took him home. After that”—with a helpless gesture—“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Just how jealous would you say he could get?” asked Ives.

  “You mean, could he get violent to some degree?”

  Ives nodded. “Yes. With or without drink.”

  “He’s an odd type,” said Lurie reflectively, “and not easy to classify. Take the girl, Molly Dann, for instance. A big, loud, flashy beauty, and pretty much on the physical side. Weldon’s not like that. But Molly is the only girl who ever got under his skin at all. Maybe that’s why he needed her. Maybe she helped him fight off something else. Looking at it one way, I can’t see Weldon caring much about any girl; looking at it another way, no telling what he might do. Last night, for instance, I thought he was crazy.”

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  Lurie shook his head. “I don’t actually know much about him.”

  “Your chauffeur about?” was Ives’s next question, and Lurie
promptly summoned his clerk, asking him to tell Sully to come in at once. The chauffeur appeared, in neat whipcord, cap in hand.

  “Lieutenant Ives wants to ask you some questions about Mr. Weldon,” Lurie told him, then turned to a stack of correspondence as if what was to follow had no interest for him. He didn’t look up until Sully finished, having related that he drove the car with Messrs. Lurie and Weldon to the studio, then took Weldon upstairs while Mr. Lurie drove home in the car. Having seen the painter safely to bed, he then turned out the lights and departed, taking a taxi back to the house.

  At the end of this recital Ives rose to go, and Sully, ever the well-trained servant, jumped up to hold the door open for him. Then he closed the door and turned to face his employer with considerably enhanced apprehension.

  “You blundering ape,” said Lurie caustically.

  Sully hung his head, abject shame incongruous in his scarred, ugly face. He was relieved when Lurie sat down. “Better watch the girl’s place,” said Lurie finally, in a patient voice. “Take your own car, and get out of that uniform.”

  Sully acknowledged this with a barely perceptible nod and eased himself gratefully out the door.

  Chapter 21

  Victor Grandi had stretched the Degas nude and the delicate application of some solvents to one corner had skillfully brought out the artist’s original balance of color and light. He was pleased with the result, and now, alone in the gallery, was making certain that it was hung at precisely eye level.

  Cassy strolled in the open door and came down into the gallery to watch him. “A little to the left,” she said judicially. “Not so much.” Then, “There, that’s got it.”

  Grandi stepped away. “I’m glad I got it in place before your uncle took over. He’d hang half the paintings upside down if it amused him.” He picked up some bits of wire severed in the operation of replacing the Degas, dropping them carefully in the basket at the desk. Cass followed him there, and as he seemed to be leaving, stopped him at the door.