The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  “More or less.”

  “Why did you wait?”

  “What would be the point of exposing Weldon? I had to know what was involved, who was involved, and how much. I watched Weldon and that way I picked up the connection to Simon Edgerton. That damn near drove me crazy. I couldn’t figure his place in the set-up at all.” His eyes wavered to Astorg, still on the couch.

  “Go on,” said Astorg. “I might as well hear it all now.”

  Norden looked at Lurie quizzically, as if asking permission. When he saw no sign of protest, he said, “Maybe it’s just knowing how certain minds work—anyway, I knew you wouldn’t need Simon if you were dealing with a collector. It would mean admitting the paintings were hot. But Simon was obviously a key man and that could only mean that he was needed to make the paintings authentic. When I found out that Mr. Astorg had these great new Renoirs”—he smiled modestly—“from there it was easy. It was a great idea,” he said respectfully to Lurie. “I wish I’d thought of it when I had Simon on my side. I knew an artist then who could knock out Pissarro and Monet with his eyes shut.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Astorg stiffly. “I was the gull.” He turned his bitter stare on Lurie. “My partner! My friend!”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Lurie. “Am I in business to make friends? Are you?”

  Astorg nodded sullenly. “Thank you.”

  “Anyway,” said Norden brightly, “once I knew the program, all I had to do was pick the weakest spot and start tunneling in that way. I thought it would be Simon,” he finished thoughtfully. “As it turned out, that may have been a mistake. You knew the truth by then, didn’t you?” he asked Astorg.

  The old dealer shook his head. “I’m rather more dense than you think.”

  “Oh. I thought you did because…” His voice trailed off. “It doesn’t matter,” he added lamely.

  “He means,” said Lurie delicately, “because he saw you at the Edgerton place that night.”

  “Before or after you arrived?” demanded Astorg.

  “Before,” said Norden, after a moment’s pause.

  Astorg laughed brutally. “Then I think we can take it for granted that Simon was still alive.”

  “I think we ought to change the subject,” said Lurie, “before we raise the price of the other two drawings.”

  Norden chuckled. “I was just thinking about that. I’ll say good night,” he said politely. “I’m sure you must have a lot to talk about.”

  Lurie went out into the hall with the departing guest, then Astorg heard the opening and closing of the door and the rattle of the bolt. Lurie came back with a humidor from which he selected a large cigar. “Want one?”

  Astorg shook his head. “Bad for my heart,” he said drily.

  “You must be careful,” said Lurie gravely. He took a minute or two for the perforation and even lighting of the cigar. Then he closed the humidor, carefully moved it so that it was in the center of the long library table, and after cocking an eye was dissatisfied with the effect. There was a small, gracefully executed bronze, a nude in bas-relief on a roughly finished plaque, and he placed this on the humidor. “Maillol,” he told Astorg. “Not to my mind a first-class artist, but I’ve had this for many years. It was in the first good collection I ever handled. I sold everything in it but this plaque and at last decided to keep it for luck.”

  “The story of your life, when you get around to it,” said Astorg bitingly, “should be very interesting. Let me know if you need a finish.”

  Lurie laughed. “I’m glad you’re showing some spirit, Jonas. You were beginning to depress me. I’m ashamed of what happened here. That a sniveling little thief like Norden should have the gall to come here and demand money!”

  “Is that why you gave it to him so readily?”

  Lurie spread his hands helplessly. “I’m not a fool. It would be sheer, egotistical folly to deny that Norden stands to make a lot of trouble. But,” he finished with satisfaction, “we’ve been lucky so far.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Lurie tapped the ash gently from his cigar. “Would you really like to know, Jonas?”

  “No!”

  The other man smiled. “That’s what I thought.” The smile receded. “I’ll do,” he said gravely, “what I have to do. Neither more nor less. Something like this has been inevitable. In the back of my mind, I think I knew that and subconsciously prepared myself. I was never content with running just a business, Jonas—not even when it was very successful. Were you?” he asked abruptly.

  “I know what you mean,” was Astorg’s low, hesitant reply.

  “I’m sure you do. My earliest admiration for you was touched off years ago when I saw some things you sold an auto magnate in Detroit. A quarter of a million dollars’ worth of great, authentic paintings, but you couldn’t resist sneaking in a few worthless pre-Columbian vessels made right here in Los Angeles. That gave me great pleasure. I knew then that we were destined to be partners.”

  “Why did you have to fool me?” demanded Astorg. “Of all people, why me?”

  Lurie shrugged. “Challenge, or ego, or arrogance, I suppose. Most collectors and dealers bore me. I am frequently honest in my dealings with them only because they’re so gullible that fleecing them is like shooting a sitting duck. But with you, Jonas,” he said affectionately, “my faculties had to be at their very keenest.” He put down the cigar and stretched, arching his long arms gracefully. “I’m going to the beach,” he said. “Shall I drop you, or will you wait for me here?”

  “I’ll go home,” said Astorg quietly.

  In the same chatty, confiding manner, Lurie said, “It’s a little early to call on our friend Norden, but he won’t mind.”

  Astorg paused in the hall. “Have you got the money?”

  Lurie nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  Astorg caught his arm and his partner turned in wide-eyed surprise. “Give him the money,” said Astorg, in a tone of voice that was almost a plea. “You can count on me for my share—all of it, if necessary.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “Do you hear, Lurie?” said Astorg insistently. “Don’t get a crazy notion of pride or revenge now. Give him the money.”

  “Of course,” said Lurie mildly. He turned off the lamps in the hall, facing the other man in the fitfully scattered light from the salon. “I rather dislike putting myself in the clutches of such a blackmailing scoundrel. Who knows,” he went on piously, “what unreasonable demands he may make in the future?”

  “That we can think about later on. I want those drawings tonight, and I want to be sure Norden isn’t going to trouble us.”

  Lurie smiled. “I give you my word. My word of honor.” Astorg seemed about to speak, then subsided. “What is it you want to say?” he asked politely.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” muttered Astorg. He took his coat from the chair on which it was folded, then silently followed Lurie to the big black car in the driveway.

  Chapter 30

  At the Far West the motel business was booming. Ives had requisitioned the two bungalows adjoining Norden’s original space, and another facing this layout on the other side of the court. The hag who managed the inn had delightedly evicted the tenants in these accommodations, giving them barely time to dress, shooing them into the night with raucous and obscene suggestions of sanctuary.

  Norden rendered a faithful account of his interview, after which Ives relieved him of the two thousand and the gun. Sergeant Bonner took charge of both, settling himself in a well-lit corner with the currency and several sheets of closely typed onion-skin paper.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Lieutenant,” said Norden respectfully, “I’d just as soon meet Lurie in a tank or an armored car.”

  “Sit down, scum,” said Ives coldly, and Norden obediently sat down. “I’m using you,” cont
inued Ives, “but don’t crowd your luck. I use stool-pigeons, even drug addicts when I have to. If you’re useful, I may let you plead to something easy. If you’re not, you’ll wish Lurie had stuffed you with cement.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Norden uneasily.

  “The Lieutenant really likes you,” said Blaise. “His manner is gruff but underneath beats a heart like…” He never finished the simile. The normally well-controlled Sergeant Bonner jumped up from his researches. “Here it is. The whole two thousand is part of what Weldon drew out of the bank.”

  Ives grinned suddenly. “Well, what do you know!” he said gently. “What do you know!”

  Blaise, not quite so poised, was excitedly looking down at the pages Bonner extended, the Sergeant showing him how the bank kept track of its currency. “We don’t know exactly what bills the bank issued to Weldon,” the Sergeant explained, “but we know that on the day he made this withdrawal they issued twenties, fifties and hundreds with serial numbers somewhere in this range. And here they are.”

  “How much did Weldon have?” asked Blaise.

  “He got six thousand in this batch,” Ives told him. “We may get more of it later.”

  In a pained, fearful voice, Norden said, “Jesus, Lieutenant, you don’t really think Lurie is coming here to give me that money, do you?”

  “Shut up.”

  When Norden subsided, Ives condescended to add, “Of course, he’ll give you the money. He’s got to have the drawings. His best bet is to kill you,” he said thoughtfully, as if he were trying to guess his opponent’s strategy in a game of chess, “but not until he has the drawings, and definitely not here.”

  “I’m glad,” said Norden, licking his dry lips nervously.

  “Is there any way I can meet Lurie?” asked Blaise, and at Ives’s curious look, he added, “It was my idea.”

  “You’ve got an honest face. Lurie would never believe you were blackmailing him. Besides, if anything happened to you there’d be an awful stink. This one”—he jerked his thumb at Norden—“he’s expendable.”

  “I’d like a drink,” said Norden.

  Ives nodded. “Give it to him, Bonner.”

  Sergeant Bonner, whose duties were varied, took a bottle from a cupboard and poured a stiff drink into a tumbler, watching his superior for orders to suspend pouring. Norden swallowed it desperately then lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. “All I need now,” he said bitterly, “is a blindfold.”

  It was eleven-thirty now, and though Ives had lookouts posted to warn of an untimely appearance by Lurie, he thought it best to clear for action. A tape-recorder, its spool wound for two hours’ running-time, was planted in a cupboard and the invaluable Bonner had substituted for one of the motel’s lamps an undistinguished fixture the bulbs of which were lighted by a battery so that the dangling wire actually connected to the recorder. The shade housed a sensitive directional microphone. Sergeant Bonner started the device, checking for noise or vibration, and it was left running.

  Norden looked like a horse with a broken leg who knew he was about to be abandoned to die.

  “You’re doing fine,” Blaise told him reassuringly on the way out.

  Bonner stayed on the dark side of Norden’s bungalow, his own gun loose in its holster, crouched at a window where the shade had been adjusted to give him a meager slice of light. The Lieutenant and Blaise went into the adjoining bungalow. A thin, nervous crackling issued from a loudspeaker on the floor, over which they heard the heavy sound of Norden’s footsteps, the noise rising and receding as he paced the room. Then the footsteps stopped and there was a creaking sound, followed an instant later by a gurgling splash.

  “He’s at the whiskey,” said Ives in a matter-of-fact tone. “Well, he can use it.”

  “Think he’ll be all right?” asked Blaise.

  Ives nodded confidently. “Do you suppose I’d risk it if I didn’t think so? It’s a hundred to one Lurie won’t try anything here, and if he should, Bonner is the best shot in the Department. My main concern is whether or not he talks.”

  “I think he will,” said Blaise. “He won’t just take Norden’s word that these are all the drawings. He’ll try to…”

  Ives gripped his wrist as Lurie’s voice came over the speaker. “I’m a few minutes early,” he was saying in his grave, deliberate voice. “I’m pleased to find you at home.”

  They heard Norden fiddling with the bolts. “I don’t think the streets in this neighborhood are safe at night,” he said.

  Ives seemed to relax. “He’ll be all right,” he whispered to Blaise.

  “Let me see the three drawings,” Lurie said casually.

  “Two drawings. I gave you one at the house.”

  “So you did.” There was a momentary pause, then Lurie said, “I myself am not a suspicious type but my colleague is inclined to think that you may be holding back a few things as security for your old age.”

  “I’m not. I had four of Weldon’s drawings originally. I gave one to Simon Edgerton, left you another tonight, I’ve got two more and that’s all.”

  “I hope so. Even an impoverished old age is better than none. I’m giving you a great deal of money, you know.”

  “Because you’ve got a hell of a lot at stake.” Blaise was gratified to hear Norden take a line he had suggested. “You’ve got at least three more fakes and with me out of the way there’s nothing to stop you from unloading them.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” said Lurie calmly. “However, the proceeds from our pleasant little counterfeits do not represent a bottomless pit of money. Frankly, I was inclined to think we had too many partners to begin with. To be sure, the ranks have thinned out somewhat. You might speculate for a moment on the hazards of the career you are embracing. Would you care to know what actuarial tables predict as the life-span of the average blackmailer? No? Well, perhaps the subject is a depressing one.” In a brisk, businesslike manner, he said, “I’ve brought the money.” There was a pause, probably for its exhibition, then, “Let me see the drawings.”

  Ives, still listening and waiting, had nevertheless moved to the door. The microphone next door picked up and transported the rustle of papers, then there was only the faint buzz of the apparatus.

  “Nice,” said Lurie. “Oh, very nice! How frustrating it must have been for Weldon to have this marvelous talent locked up in him!”

  Something strained and taut in Lurie’s voice made Blaise throw a warning glance at Ives.

  “These are good enough to fool anyone,” Lurie was saying. “Actually, for all I know these might be genuine Renoirs. This one on top has even once been mounted, as if it had been exhibited somewhere. There are marks of tape in the corners.”

  “I wanted—I tried to sell it when I was ducking the police,” muttered Norden in a frightened, quavering voice.

  “You lying stool-pigeon!” bellowed Lurie. “What kind of drawings are these?”

  Ives yanked the door open, and gun in hand jumped from the top step. Blaise followed him, just as two shots were fired almost simultaneously. Sergeant Bonner, also with his automatic ready, reached the front of the bungalow from his post as Ives rushed up, then the door banged open silhouetting Lurie as in a frame. He was clutching his shattered, bloody right wrist, his face twisted with pain, but when he saw the police and Blaise he dropped both arms and forced the muscles of his face into some part of their accustomed composure. Hugh Norden, unharmed but green with fright, leaned weakly against the cupboard in the background.

  “This way out,” said Ives quietly, and Lurie obediently descended, following the two detectives to the waiting car.

  Chapter 31

  Though a man of erratic and inconstant personal habit and taste, in some minute particulars Lucas Edgerton followed a rigid and inflexible pattern. One of these was his breakfast, served to him alone every morning at seven-thirty in the huge
dining room. He might appear in a ragged burnoose and a fez, but the butler and houseman were in impeccable livery; his breakfast might consist of one bite of toast and a cup of coffee, but the sideboard was crowded with silver dishes and covers offering an enormous variety of foods.

  The hour itself generally afforded privacy. Beyond that, it was a rare being who would face the ruling Edgerton on an empty stomach. He betrayed no surprise, however, when Cassy padded in, her slippers scuffing the thick rug. She was wearing a housecoat, some inches of nightgown protruding at the hem.

  “Damn it, Cassy,” said Edgerton, who was wearing a blue blazer with brass buttons over his pajama coat, “can’t you get decently dressed for breakfast?”

  Cassy ignored him. “I want,” she said dreamily to the startled houseman, “caviar, blini with sour cream, and a pint of champagne.” Edgerton’s coffee cup banged the saucer in his astonishment, and she turned to him. “Do not unquiet yourself,” she said loftily. “I have odd whims, but I’m not pregnant.”

  “Fine talk,” muttered Edgerton. Then he looked up at Jennings. “You heard Miss Cassandra,” he roared. “Get a move on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cassy smiled. “Orange juice, toast and coffee, Jennings,” she said meekly.

  “Yes, Miss,” sighed the butler.

  Edgerton ate his scrambled eggs, concentrating on each fragment as if he were determining its molecular weight.

  “I talked to Blaise,” said Cassy.

  Edgerton nodded. “God-damn G-man,” he muttered. “Seen too many movies. Damn things have sapped his brain.”

  “He’s coming out,” she continued imperturbably.

  Edgerton shrugged. “Don’t suppose I could stop him. I remember,” he added bitterly, “when this place used to be private property. Nothing but a lousy public picnic ground now.”

  “You need more contact with the outside world,” said Cassy severely. “This gilded hermitage has made you grumpy, arbitrary, pig-headed and vain. However, Blaise and I are going to live with you for the first few years. The house will be filled with the laughter of young-people, and, who knows, perhaps the patter of little feet.”