The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  “Can I keep my room,” asked Edgerton bitterly, “or will you be needing it?”

  Jennings materialized with her breakfast and cleared Edgerton’s place before retiring into the pantry again.

  “Are you joking—about Blaise?” asked Edgerton in a subdued tone.

  She shook her head gravely. “No, I’m not. We’re getting married.” There was still a note of defiance in her voice.

  “Right away?”

  “Today. ‘Act—act in the living present,’” she quoted to bolster this announcement.

  Edgerton said nothing at once but after tentative advances and withdrawals reached out and patted her hand awkwardly. “All right, Cassy,” he murmured gently.

  At this sudden and warm surrender Cassy broke into tears. Pained by this development, Edgerton inched his chair around. “It’s all right, Cassy,” he repeated uncomfortably, and then, in more predictable tones, “Goddamn it, Cassy, stop crying! It’s all right, I say.”

  “You don’t mind?” she blubbered.

  “What the hell—I suppose you’ve got to marry somebody.”

  “I do. I’m all matured and everything.” She took the handkerchief he extended and mopped up daintily. “By the way, you’ve never told me about the birds and the bees and stuff like that. This is just about your last chance.”

  “I’ll buy you a book. Incidentally, in your girlish enthusiasm I don’t suppose you managed to suppress the facts about your income, did you?”

  “He knew,” said Cassy proudly. “He checked up right away. He’s really awfully smart.”

  “You were able to overcome his manly opposition to living on your money?”

  “The facts are, as you darn well know, that Blaise is very successful.” She shut off his attempted interruption. “Oh, don’t give me that old story about your being his only client. Today you need him more than he needs you. He was right about the forgeries, and you were as wrong as Christmas in July. If he isn’t working for you today and from now on, people are going to be asking themselves why he was fired and probably coming to the conclusion that he got canned because he was too smart and too honest to have access to the great Edgerton Collection. Mix that,” she concluded with great satisfaction, “in your brown umber, add a touch of zinc white, and smoke it.”

  “He’s thought of all that, has he?”

  “I’ve thought of it, and I’m not the type to keep secrets from my husband.”

  Edgerton pushed back his chair. “You’ll make a great wife for an art dealer, Cassy.”

  “That’s my plan,” she answered firmly. “Bear it in mind if you still want to fire Blaise.”

  “Fire him?” Edgerton looked shocked. “I want to buy a piece of the business.”

  Chapter 32

  The morning papers were scattered all over the desk and table in the library, glaring headlines and smudged half-tones telling the story of last night’s exploits. Blaise figured prominently in these, and his first act on entering the library was to gather them and drop the bundle in the fireplace.

  “They shot my bad profile,” he complained, looking at the subdued group around Edgerton. Wesley Corum, as usual dressed as for an autopsy, rewarded him with a weak smile, but neither Victor Grandi nor Miriam Wayne, both of whom were present, ventured any comment.

  “You’re a red-hot celebrity,” sneered Edgerton. “I’m hoping you’ll give me your autograph.”

  “I’ve already been invited to appear,” Blaise informed him, “on ‘Meet the People’ and I think I can arrange a booking for you on ‘It Pays to Be Ignorant.’”

  For a moment it seemed that Edgerton was about to shoot up like a rocket, but he subsided at last. “I guess I had that coming to me,” he said, with some difficulty.

  “I think we have all underestimated Mr. Blaise,” Grandi interposed smoothly. “I, for one, wish to express my complete admiration.”

  Dr. Corum nodded soberly. “And I.”

  “You know how I feel,” said Miriam Wayne, and Blaise smiled. “Yes, I think I do.”

  He handed Edgerton the three rolled-up drawings. “Anyway, you earned an assist.”

  “I’ll be damned!” said Edgerton softly, when he smoothed out the drawings. He looked up at Miriam sharply. “Did you give him these?”

  “No,” she answered thoughtfully, “but I think I understand your niece’s fainting spell last night.”

  “Right,” said Blaise. “I was collecting these in the gallery. It isn’t easy,” he added, “to find three early Renoir drawings in a hurry, and Lurie and Astorg had to be convinced that proof of the forgery still existed. You can still have me jugged for breaking and entering. I confess freely.”

  Edgerton laughed out loud suddenly. “They thought these were forgeries? What muggs!” he chortled happily. “Do they know how they hung themselves?”

  “There were some bitter reproaches,” said Blaise. “In the heat of recrimination between the partners a good deal of the background of the conspiracy was exposed.” His gaze swept the group and there was a momentary silence. It was broken when Dr. Corum cleared his throat nervously.

  “My God!” said Edgerton, in an awed voice. “Don’t tell me he was in on it?”

  A word at a time, like a faltering schoolboy, Dr. Corum said, “I authenticated the painting that was sold to Nathan Ordmann.”

  “That’s no disgrace. I saw it. I was fooled. Anybody would be.”

  “I vouched for the history of the painting,” said Corum, in the same low, hang-dog voice. He tried to meet Edgerton’s stare but failed. “I corroborated the background Astorg made up.” In what was almost a wail, he continued, “The painting was perfect. I would have taken an oath it was genuine. The rest of it—well, I didn’t think that mattered. I needed the fee,” he finished miserably.

  “It was all very plausible,” said Blaise. “Roger Vernet was right here to swear the paintings had been in his family for years. That would carry a lot of weight in itself. By the way, Vernet had no idea the paintings were forged. The story they told him was that they had been bought from Nazis who were in hiding in South America. He didn’t object to that despite the fact that both his brothers were murdered by the Germans in Auschwitz.”

  “Oh, nice,” said Edgerton admiringly. “It’s quite a cast of characters. Sit down,” he said sharply as Corum got unsteadily to his feet. “Don’t start slinking out into the night like an unmarried mother in a melodrama.” He turned to Blaise. “What else?”

  “I believe the floor is mine,” said Victor Grandi promptly. With no apparent embarrassment whatever, he went on, “Lieutenant Ives has already notified me that I am to await questioning. You see, our poor Paul Weldon, while undoubtedly an enormously skillful painter, was a poor student and only a fair chemist. Quite a long time ago he started coming to me with questions about the composition of colors and it was soon obvious that he was attempting to build his palette in imitation of Renoir. The poor chap—his first attempts were ludicrously bad.”

  “You helped him?” demanded Edgerton.

  “Certainly.”

  “Why?”

  Grandi smiled. “Why not? I knew that whatever forgeries he made would be sold to sophisticated, opulent dealers and collectors. My work has not filled me with boundless respect for this manifestation of our culture.”

  “Meaning me, I suppose,” said Edgerton dourly.

  “I was delighted to give Weldon all the assistance in my power,” said Grandi coolly. “I did not, however, except for the pleasure it gave me, receive a fee. You may ascribe my participation to a labor of love.”

  “Get out,” said Edgerton harshly.

  “Gladly.” Grandi paused on his way to the door, addressing Blaise directly. “I did not know that Simon Edgerton was involved in any way with Weldon, Lurie or the forgeries.” He said this simply and directly, and then, with a little b
ow, added, “I will await Lieutenant Ives in my cottage.”

  “Don’t do anything rash,” advised Blaise. “When I left Lieutenant Ives he was trying to figure out what laws you’d broken and he hadn’t found one.”

  Grandi smiled. “I think far too much of myself even to consider self-destruction, Mr. Blaise.” He bowed again, and was gone.

  “Which the hell side are you on?” asked Edgerton irritably.

  “I like him,” said Blaise candidly. “He told the truth about what he did for Weldon. More than that, he practically pushed me into action on the forgeries when everyone else was steering me wrong or blowing dust in my face.”

  “I want to make it plain,” said Dr. Corum hoarsely, “that I was no part of any plot. I did a foolish and greedy thing, Lucas, but on my word of honor, I knew nothing of what was involved, or that Simon…”

  “Oh, be quiet, Wesley. Nobody suspects you of being anything more than a fathead and I’ve known that for thirty years. If you were strapped and needed a fee, you should have come to me…” As Corum, pale with shock, rocked unsteadily, Edgerton jumped to his side. “Easy now. Easy, Wes.” He supported the wilting critic with his arm. “Come on into the house. You need a rest.”

  “Good idea,” said Blaise. He stepped up to help, but Edgerton waved him away. He watched the faltering departure of the two men, Edgerton maintaining a running commentary of sympathy and warmth. Then he turned to look at Miriam Wayne. She was leaning back against a low cabinet. “Amazing what odd reactions an act of violence churns up. I thought the old man’s heart was set in a hand-carved frame, shellacked and lacquered against the elements.”

  “Perhaps you bring out the best in people,” the girl said mildly. “We are all very much in your debt,” she added in a formal tone that was belied by her look of amusement.

  “I did only what any real, red-blooded American boy would have done,” said Blaise. “Besides, until a few petty details are filled in—the identity of the murderer, for instance—it doesn’t really amount to very much.”

  “I thought”—her low voice was barely audible in the huge room—“we all thought it was Lurie.”

  “So did I. Another of my cockeyed ideas.”

  “Oh, well,” said Miriam, with more composure now, “I’m sure you’ll have another theory before long.”

  “I’ve got it.” Blaise sat down on the edge of the long paper-strewn table. The girl was still in her position against the cabinet, but her hands now gripped the edge so that her knuckles showed as dead white bulges. “Walk out that door,” said Blaise quietly, “and you’ll find out what it is.”

  She looked at him steadily, then let go of the cabinet edge, removing her hands slowly, first one and then the other. She walked to the library door, her head held high, and as she threw the door open wide, Sergeant Bonner stepped up to fill the doorway.

  “Will you wait, please, Miss?” he said politely. He reached in for the knob, the girl taking two short backward steps to let him close the door. She did not turn to face Blaise and there was an oppressive silence broken by the rasping of a match as he lit a cigarette.

  “That was Sergeant Bonner, Miriam. I believe you talked to him on the phone.”

  She swung around. “That’s not true!” she cried.

  “Take it easy,” cautioned Blaise. “Why be so vehement about that? Before you know it,” he went on gently, “you’ll be giving yourself away.”

  She looked up. Her dark eyes were luminous. “I see that Lurie has talked some nonsense.” She hesitated. “I did supply the books and drawings Weldon worked from. That much is true. I didn’t want to, but Lurie threatened me.”

  “What else is true?” asked Blaise. “Were you in love with Simon, or did it just seem like an advantageous marriage?”

  “I loved Simon.” Her voice was low, a little shaky. “And he was in love with me.”

  “The day I arrived,” said Blaise, “Simon was in a state of pure terror. It was obvious when I’d been here an hour that he was stealing from the collection and was terrified of exposure. But later on, the same night, when I accused him of that he laughed at me. I know now what happened in the interim.”

  “I don’t care,” said Miriam sharply. “I’ve admitted my own part in this. Do what you like.”

  “Simon didn’t know the paintings were forgeries, did he, Miriam? He thought he was stealing them from the collection, and that you were covering up for him. That was your hold on him.”

  “That’s a lie!” Her voice came explosively. “Don’t you see that Lurie and Astorg are trying to distract you from themselves?”

  “Oddly enough,” he told her, “this is all my idea. Lurie did say that you insisted on handling Simon yourself, keeping him in the dark about the forgeries. He thinks your plan was to force Simon to marry you. If Simon tried to shake you, you could expose him to his father.”

  “A pack of lies,” she said contemptuously. “Lurie is jealous, always has been.”

  “The night he was killed,” said Blaise steadily, “Simon learned from Hugh Norden that the Renoirs were forgeries. He came home, woke you up, if you were asleep, and told you he was out from under the whip-hand. You knew then that you’d lost him forever. Then he went to the gallery to return the cards he’d stolen from me. That gave you a few minutes to think beautiful thoughts. When he emerged, you were waiting for him. You could get up close, maybe to plead for another chance—it had to be someone he knew pretty well to fire at point-blank range like that.”

  “You’re mad! You’re talking absolute nonsense.”

  “Don’t listen,” suggested Blaise. “Read an improving book, write a letter, or—if your thoughts turn in that direction—make your will.”

  “You heartless son-of-a-bitch!”

  “I suppose I should be sorry for you,” said Blaise. “But then I think of Simon, and I think of Paul Weldon, off his neurotic perch with anxiety and drink, not even a real threat to your safety, but you saw a chance to pin everything on him. It only meant one more killing, an easy one, considering the shape he was in. Am I boring you?” he asked politely.

  She struck at him suddenly, a round-house slap, then cried out in pain as Blaise caught her wrist an inch from his face. He held her like this while her free hand lashed out impotently.

  “I see that I’m not boring you. I’m glad. You jumped too soon and too high when I said you had talked to Sergeant Bonner on the phone. As a matter of fact, that’s when Lieutenant Ives began to measure you for this part. Weldon was drunk, incoherent and rambling; anyone might have imitated speech like that, even a woman provided her voice was naturally low. But it had to be someone who knew that I was out, and that Bonner, who had never heard Weldon’s voice—or yours—was in my room waiting for the call. That narrowed it down to someone in this household and Corum and Edgerton were both with me. Weldon was desperate for money because we know now that Lurie had taken what he had hidden in the studio. He was washed up, frantic to get away. Despite that he spent twenty-five minutes here after he locked Cassy in the vault. He spent that time with you, Miriam, pleading for help. Needless to say, he got it.”

  He was still holding her wrist but her thrashings had stopped. When he relaxed his grip she staggered back and slumped into a chair. Her eyes were boring into his, as if searching for an avenue of escape. “You can’t prove that,” she said hoarsely. “Not a word of it.”

  “Ives can,” said Blaise, “and he will. Everything in your apartment has been carted downtown and Ives is up in your room in the house. Did you burn everything you wore in that last scene with Simon Edgerton, or when you snuggled up to Paul Weldon in the car? Are you counting on Kenneth Lurie to save your pretty neck if it means risking his own?”

  She buried her face in both hands suddenly and a shudder rocked her slim body. There was a choking sound, as though she were gasping for breath, then great, anguished sobs.


  Blaise watched her for a moment and then turned away when he heard the door open quietly. It was Lieutenant Ives, grim and hollow-eyed in his rumpled clothes. He was holding the door open.

  A little wind was whipping in from the sea as Blaise came out, and he was grateful for the clean, stinging breeze. He walked across the lawn to the beach and he saw Cassy far out on the rocks jutting into the surf. She was waving to him, scrambling back in, and he stood at the base of the jetty until she appeared overhead. He raised his arms, bracing himself in the loose sand, and she jumped.

  THE CASE OF THE 16 BEANS, by Harry Stephen Keeler

  Copyright © 1944 by Phoenix Press.

  DEDICATION

  To

  EDWIN CHARLES MAYER,

  “pal” and ever-eager companion in those olden, golden days of marbles and baseball bats, fishlines and swimming holes—days that are truly golden because he was part of them!

  Chapter I

  BEQUEST

  Boyce Barkstone leaned forward in his chair, aghast.

  “And do you mean to tell me,” he repeated, unbelievingly, to the attorney seated facing him, “that my grandfather left me only a handful of beans—out of an estate of practically $100,000? And left the $100,000 itself—or nearly so—to that fool Academy for the Proving of Social Theories?”

  “I’m sorry to say I do,” echoed the white-mustached man facing him in the bright high-up skyscraper office, and contemplating him gravely at the same time through round owl-like tortoise-shell eyeglasses. “For you’ve just read his will—or the carbon copy of it. With which at least, Boyce, I can say I had nothing to do. It was my partner who actually drew it up—for, like yourself, I’ve been out of town for a week, you know—though even he tried to argue your grandfather out of it—but to no avail.”

  “My God!” commented Boyce Barkstone, passing a hand over his forehead and shoving away the lock of brown hair that persisted in falling downward over his steel grey eyes. “That’s—that’s what comes of knowing a few smart-alecky wisecracks—and handing ’em out—free gratis!”