The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  It was Miriam who, at the last, handed him a check and efficiently asked for a statement of his expenses.

  * * * *

  Blaise found Cassy on the beach, as arranged. “You look,” she said, “like one of the more vivid illustrations in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. St. Sebastian, or one of those boys, complete with arrows.”

  He lowered himself gratefully to the sand. “I know. You haven’t got a drink on you, have you, Cassy?”

  “Where do you suppose it might be?” she asked, looking down at the few square inches of bright blue silk that covered her.

  “I thought you might have a hollow tooth,” said Blaise. He stood up and extending his hand pulled her up. “Let’s go where we can get one.”

  Cassy tucked herself discreetly into a terrycloth robe and they went to his car in the driveway. “Farewell,” said Blaise to the gateman as they rolled by. “Farewell! O scene of triumph, farewell!”

  “Uncle tied a can to you, eh?”

  Blaise nodded. “Not until, however, he had filled it with firecrackers. I was roasted to a turn, Cassy, and Miriam Wayne was right there to baste me whenever the juices threatened to overflow.”

  “You poor baby,” was her motherly reply.

  On the highway she guided him to a fish joint with a bar and a rickety terrace. After two doubles, Blaise recovered sufficiently to try the large stone crab, served cracked and cold.

  “You said I could help,” Cassy reminded him.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “It’s big trouble if it backfires.” He told her about it while he explored remnants of shell for fugitive bits of crab. It enabled him to avoid looking at her face which grew small and anxious as he outlined his extravaganza.

  “You could get the same results,” she said, “by hanging a sign around your neck: ‘Three Shots for a Quarter. Win a Prize.’”

  “I’m stuck,” said Blaise briefly. “It’s all the idea I’ve got. Ives apparently thinks it might work,” he said reassuringly. “That’s how I got the keys.”

  “Ives,” she pointed out, “will be home in bed, miles from the rattle of muskets.”

  “Not really. Getting the drawings should be a snap. From then on, Ives will cover me.”

  She was silent, looking at him quizzically. “Ellis, is this something you’ve got to do?”

  “I think so,” he answered gravely.

  “Vanity?” He glanced up sharply, and she went on hastily. “I understand that. I’ll do whatever you say, Ellis, and for whatever reason, or no reason at all.”

  He reached across the table to cover her hand with his. “I’m an art dealer, Cassy. It may seem like a silly thing to be, but there it is—I am. I sell important paintings to important people. I watch for new talent, too, and if I find an artist who’s got something to say and technique enough to say it, I back him—against the world, if necessary. I see that he’s got a place to live, enough to eat, and security to paint. Even if the critics belt my ears off and unsold canvases pile up like old newspapers. That’s the good, the truly first-class part of being in my business. But to do it, or anything, I have to come back to the original premise: I sell important paintings to important people. Your uncle thinks he made that possible, and, as of now, he’s absolutely right, but I think I would have realized it, sooner or later, on my own—as people began to have confidence in my judgment. That’s my biggest asset. With it, if I tell a client a painting is a good buy at thirty, or forty, or fifty thousand dollars, a good chance exists that he’ll concur, hang it proudly and defend his judgment and mine against sniping from other dealers and collectors. Without that atmosphere of confidence, I’m back in the bush league, selling Mother’s Day cards and second-rate prints. My reputation is at stake. Your uncle fired me. That’s bad enough, but luckily he’s fired, at one time or another, every dealer on both sides of the Atlantic. What really worries me is the matter of the Renoirs. I’m going to be sued, that’s certain. If I have to go into court with nothing but my hunch, I’ll be cat meat when I come out.”

  Cassy looked up at him soberly, and he grinned. “That’s the longest speech I made since I persuaded the president of two banks and three railroads to buy a Picasso with a hammer and sickle in the foreground.”

  “Thanks for the statement of policy,” said Cassy softly.

  “I laid it on thick,” he said. “Actually, with a rich wife at my side, my fears are largely imaginary.”

  “What do I do?” asked Cass.

  “A trifle,” said Blaise, smiling. “Hide in the gallery, switch off the alarm, open the door and let me in.”

  Cassy considered this. “I don’t think that’s asking too much. After all, we’re friends. I take it you’re not actually going to steal anything from Uncle Lucas?”

  “Just his niece.”

  Cassy’s smile was torn in half. Blaise, alarmed at her sudden air of apprehension and dismay, instinctively started to turn, but she caught his arm in a frantic little gesture. “Don’t turn around—you’ll frighten him.” She answered the unspoken question. “It’s Hugh Norden. He looks funny without his glasses, but it’s Hugh.” As Blaise stiffened, she said, “I don’t think he’s seen us yet. He’s inside. He’s ordering. Turn around slowly now.”

  Blaise shifted himself slowly, Cassy’s voice guiding him. “At the counter…next to the wall…in the light-blue suit.” It took Blaise a moment to allow for the lack of spectacles and mustache, but it was Norden. He was neatly dressed and clean-shaven, but he sagged over the counter like a man about to drop from exhaustion. “Ives said he was heading this way,” said Blaise. “He predicted we’d be hearing from him.”

  “You haven’t heard yet,” warned Cassy. “He’s mean. Be careful.”

  Blaise moved along the strip of terrace which circled the building so that he could come in on Norden from the street. He sat down on one of the adjoining stools and was treated to a quick white-hot flash of panic as Norden recognized him.

  “You’ve run a long way,” said Blaise. “How are things on the road?”

  “Stay away from me,” said Norden, in a hoarse, anxious voice.

  “I’m having a beer on the terrace with Cass Edgerton,” said Blaise. “Come and join us.” Norden was gripping the counter with both hands, steadying himself, it seemed, for some as yet undetermined move. “Be smart,” urged Blaise. “I can show you how to get out of this jam all in one piece. Sooner or later, you’ve got to square yourself, Norden.”

  Norden’s grip on the projecting counter relaxed slightly. “You won’t yell for the cops?”

  Blaise smiled. “The cops are inevitable—you know that. Your problem is how to face them. That’s what I’m prepared to solve.” He moved away a step. “Coming?” Norden stood up and started the way Blaise indicated to the terrace. “He’s with me,” Blaise explained to the counterman.

  Chapter 27

  The auto-court motel, a tourist facility in most areas, is that and more in Southern California. Some are establishments renting their cramped quarters by the month or year to families trapped in the housing shortage, but others specialize in the quick turn-over, leasing by the hour, or, in emergencies, by the minute. These are as much a part of the mating habits of the citizenry as sport-coats and convertibles, and it was in such a caravansary that Blaise found a lodging for Hugh Norden. For still another few hours it was important to keep Norden free, and the motel was ideal. The landlady, once recovered from her chagrin that the cabin was rented for the entire night, gave the register barely a glance, and Blaise was positive that had Norden signed “Martin Luther” or “Shirley Temple” it would have been all the same to the management.

  The cabin was mildewed and dreary, but Norden had a quart of whiskey to enliven the decor. “Don’t worry,” he said when Blaise gave the bottle a perturbed look. “I’m not a drinker. I need this. My nerves are shot.” As he poured himself a drink he a
sked Blaise to draw the curtains, and when this was done, he delicately slipped the contact lenses from his eyes, replacing them with the familiar thick horn-rimmed glasses he normally wore. “I hate the God-damn things,” he muttered, carefully putting the fragile lenses away.

  “For an innocent man,” said Blaise, “you went to a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “On paper,” said Norden, “you can make it come out the way you want it. In the clutch, when the pressure suddenly comes on, clear thinking doesn’t come so easily.” He sipped his drink, medicinally, Blaise was glad to see, and it seemed to be working for him. “There I was,” went on Norden, “a trespasser on the place, with my record, and with what I knew damn well was going on. You’d spotted me with Simon, and for all I knew then—or now,” he added significantly, “you were with the cops. That’s a beautiful spot for me, with no alibi.”

  “I take it,” said Blaise, “that you’ve got one for last night.”

  Norden nodded, showing his large teeth in a delighted grin.

  “Will it stand up?” asked Blaise.

  “I think so. I was in jail.” At Blaise’s startled look, he said solemnly, “So help me! Guy gave me a lift, and something was wrong with his registration. The cops in some rube town up north held us until after midnight.”

  “And they let you go?” marveled Blaise.

  “There was a picture of me hanging in the squad room,” said Norden. “I saw it when I went to the can. If the cops were all like that,” said Norden, “it would be a pleasure. A man could steal and sleep nights. The one that scares me,” he finished ruefully, “is that Ives.”

  “You’re in the clear now,” Blaise pointed out.

  “I know. Ives may not be able to hold me, but the chances are I won’t feel like walking out when he’s through with me. He’ll hang something on me just for putting him to all this trouble.”

  “When you ordered those contact lenses—the way you did it, under an assumed name—wasn’t that for a getaway?”

  Norden nodded. “That’s true. The funny thing is I never meant to use them to hide from the police.” As Blaise’s eyebrows went up politely, he insisted, “That’s true. I’d made up my mind to get myself into the Renoir business. I was broke, and this looked like my chance for that one big score. But I was scared of what Kenneth Lurie might do to me. That’s why I had a gun that night. I’m no rootin’-tootin’ shoot-’em-up. I’ve never fired a gun in my life, but I thought I might have to if I was going to crowd in with Lurie.”

  “How much were you charging Simon for the drawing?”

  “Ten thousand,” said Norden candidly. “I figured he’d get it from Lurie.”

  “Or else?”

  “I would tell Astorg. I knew that would galvanize Lurie, even if it didn’t impress Simon. But he surprised me. He told me he’d give me the money that very night, and that’s why I went to the house.”

  “And you let him keep the drawing, on the strength of his promise?”

  “Oh, sure. I could still spill everything to Astorg, drawing or no drawing. You see,” he said, with his shrewd, wolfish smile, “your problem is convincing an honest judge and an honest jury against the weight of the evidence. My problem was only to convince one crook that a couple of other crooks robbed him. Astorg bought the paintings on sight because they came from the Edgerton collection. I could prove that was a lie. Simon understood that. I don’t know why he wanted the drawing so badly that night, but I was glad to let him have it.”

  “I think I’m beginning to,” said Blaise thoughtfully. “Stay out of sight,” he warned Norden in farewell. “I’ll look in on you later.”

  “Okay. Leave me some cigarettes.”

  Blaise left him a full pack and went out to his car in the courtyard.

  * * * *

  Her part in the adventure, Cassy realized as seven o’clock rolled around that evening, was going to demand cunning and nerve; furthermore, at a level on which she had not operated since boarding-school. In those carefree days, to be sure, she had developed a flair for distracting watchmen, climbing fences and shinnying up trees that had enabled her to enjoy the late, smart showings of all the new pictures. This was different, and for all the unconcerned innocence with which she sauntered into the gallery, her heart was bumping and she knew that some of the color had drained out of her face.

  Edgerton was standing with one foot on a chair, sorting some documents spread on the desk. He looked up at her casually, muttered, “Hello, Cassy” in a distracted tone, then went back to his papers. Then he looked up at her again, sharply this time. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You look all washed out.”

  “Me?” She made a great show of peering in a mirror, pushing up her lip and sticking out her tongue. “I’ve got it,” she announced resignedly. “Edgerton’s Disease, the dread scourge of Highway 101. The symptoms are painful swelling of the ego, choleric rages, heavy deposits of money around the heart.”

  Edgerton looked surprised at her outburst, then, as if remembering something, said, “Oh! Blaise, huh? Well, in decency, I suppose you have to do a certain amount of fatuous mooning over him, so go right ahead. I’m surprised at you, Cassy!” he added reproachfully. “Hell, Blaise must be old enough to be your father.”

  “He’s thirty-one,” she said. “I’m twenty-five. Is that December and May?”

  “Thirty-one!” snorted Edgerton. Then he seemed to think about it. “Well, age doesn’t mean a thing. He’s an irritating, driveling loudmouth, and doesn’t know his backside from a Tintoretto.”

  “I suppose that’s why for nearly two years you’ve been telling everyone how smart he is.”

  “Me?” hooted Edgerton. Then in a pained, hurt voice, he said, “Well, he took me in.”

  He was relieved not to have to pursue this with Cass, who had turned away and after a few moments he was happily absorbed in his studies once more. From the nearest row of shelves, Cass watched him out of the corner of her eye. It would be difficult to stay behind if he finished for the day. Her only hope was a diversion that might enable her plausibly to stow away. It came in the welcome shape of Victor Grandi and a spirited argument about the carving of a frame, a dispute that took both men down into the vault. Cassy slipped into the coat closet in the front of the gallery and pulled the door all but shut, leaving herself an infinitesimal slit for peeping. Edgerton, on returning to the gallery, would take it for granted that she had gone back to the house or out to the beach, and since she was not expected to dine with him and his guests, barring the unexpected, she should be in the clear.

  She heard their voices again after only a few minutes in the closet.

  “I made some tests today for Lieutenant Ives,” Grandi was saying, while Edgerton checked the doors and windows. “I’m afraid the Lieutenant was quite disappointed. There is absolutely nothing on this canvas to betray the forgery. The others, I’m certain, are as finely made.”

  “Who says they’re forgeries?” demanded Edgerton.

  “You know they are,” said Grandi quietly.

  Cassy, risking detection, pushed her door open another fraction of an inch. She knew the challenging glare with which her uncle was now facing Grandi, measuring his opponent. Remarkably, she saw the flicker of defeat in the way his chin slumped.

  “You saw the drawing,” Grandi went on coolly, “and Cassy saw the forger at work in this very room.”

  “You didn’t see the drawing, Victor, and you didn’t see the forger practicing. What makes you so certain Blaise is right?”

  Cassy could see the old handyman in three-quarter profile. There was always some mockery in his humility around Edgerton and now it was openly derisive. “For your information,” he was saying, “Lieutenant Ives now suspects that I may be the alchemist who helped poor Weldon grind his colors. His suspicions were aroused when he foun
d some significant ingredients in my workshop. Fortunately, I was able to tell him that they were imported to enable me to do some retouching for you. I am greatly in your debt,” he added formally, “for confirming this story. Especially, since there was not one word of truth in it.”

  Edgerton’s fists were clenched and his eyes bright with anger. Grandi, in his old, paint-flecked clothes, faced him like an inquisitor, turning the screws one at a time.

  “I confirmed what you told Ives,” said Edgerton finally, “because you’re always bringing in some smelly paints and chemicals. I took it for granted that this was just another batch.”

  “I think not,” said Grandi politely. “Your main concern now is that the great name of Edgerton should not be connected with these forgeries. Not even through a lowly employee like myself. I know what you think of your collection; what you’re capable of doing to defend it.”

  “Gibberish,” said Edgerton hotly. “Jealous, spiteful gibberish.”

  “In Paris many years ago,” continued Grandi imperturbably, “when a dealer sold you a forged Sisley, you went to his office and made him give back your money at the point of a revolver. An interesting characteristic.”

  “I’m locking up,” said Edgerton. “Get out.”

  “Yes, sir,” was Grandi’s meek reply.

  In the closet, Cass leaned weakly against the wall. The lights went out, one after another, and then she heard the sound of the door opening and closing after Edgerton. She had a lighter this time and, masking its flame with her right hand, looked at the time. It was nearly eight o’clock and, as planned, Blaise would not appear until 9:30, when dinner would be in full swing and the chances of detection at a minimum. She was glad to have the interval in which to think, and she now had plenty to think about. Abandoning the closet, she moved quietly down into the farthest corner of the gallery, well away from the uncurtained windows, and here she lit a cigarette and sat down cross-legged on one of the thick scatter rugs. It was a bright, clear night, and she wondered if Blaise would be able to elude the two watchmen who now roamed the ocean side of the estate. She had been heart and soul for his success, but now, after the scene between Edgerton and Victor Grandi, she was assailed by all manner of conflicting loyalties and fears. She knew that Grandi was capable of biting, bitter cynicism and that Lucas Edgerton evoked this characteristic freely. But she was afraid to let her mind stray to the bitterness between Lucas Edgerton and his son, or to recall the wild rage in which Simon had been ordered out of the library the night he was killed. She tried to gather and focus the puzzling, elusive thoughts into some channel that would make sense. She was still gathering and focusing when she heard an imperative tapping at one of the windows, and, scuttling to it rapidly, saw Blaise crouching in the shrubbery. He grinned, gestured to the door, and she hurried to admit him. She set the switches rendering the alarm useless and silent, then opened the door.