“And nothing at all to gain. That’s what I don’t get. What good is a million dollars to a dame that’s going to die any day?”
“She wanted to leave it to her son,” I said. “He’d have been cut off from all that money if she had died before her husband. Ever since the doctors told her she was going to die, she must have been waiting for her chance. She probably caught on to the nurse’s trick long ago, and bided her time, waiting to use it. That swimming party last night gave her her opportunity. Mother love is a wonderful thing.”
I thought of another wonderful thing then, and I began to laugh though it wasn’t very funny. In California a murderess can’t inherit her victim’s property. So Johnny Swain is still as far away from a million dollars as the rest of us.
THE BEARDED LADY
The unlatched door swung inward when I knocked. I walked into the studio, which was high and dim as a hayloft. The big north window in the opposite wall was hung with monkscloth draperies that shut out the morning light. I found the switch beside the door and snapped it on. Several fluorescent tubes suspended from the naked rafters flickered and burnt blue-white.
A strange woman faced me under the cruel light. She was only a charcoal sketch on an easel, but she gave me a chill. Her nude body, posed casually on a chair, was slim and round and pleasant to look at. Her face wasn’t pleasant at all. Bushy black eyebrows almost hid her eyes. A walrus moustache bracketed her mouth, and a thick beard fanned down over her torso.
The door creaked behind me. The girl who appeared in the doorway wore a starched white uniform. Her face had a little starch in it, too, though not enough to spoil her good looks entirely. Her black hair was drawn back severely from her forehead.
“May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“You may ask. I’m looking for Mr. Western.”
“Really? Have you tried looking behind the pictures?”
“Does he spend much time there?”
“No, and another thing he doesn’t do—he doesn’t receive visitors in his studio when he isn’t here himself.”
“Sorry. The door was open. I walked in.”
“You can reverse the process.”
“Just a minute. Hugh isn’t sick?”
She glanced down at her white uniform and shook her head.
“Are you a friend of his?” I said.
“I try to be.” She smiled slightly. “It isn’t always easy, with a sib. I’m his sister.”
“Not the one he was always talking about?”
“I’m the only one he has.”
I reached back into my mental grab bag of war souvenirs. “Mary. The name was Mary.”
“It still is Mary. Are you a friend of Hugh’s?”
“I guess I qualify. I used to be.”
“When?” The question was brusque. I got the impression she didn’t approve of Hugh’s friends, or some of them.
“In the Philippines. He was attached to my group as a combat artist. The name is Archer, by the way. Lew Archer.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Her disapproval didn’t extend to me, at least not yet. She gave me her hand. It was cool and firm, and went with her steady gaze. I said:
“Hugh gave me the wrong impression of you. I thought you were still a kid in school.”
“That was four years ago, remember. People grow up in four years. Anyway, some of them do.”
She was a very serious girl for her age. I changed the subject.
“I saw the announcement of his show in the L.A. papers. I’m driving through to San Francisco, and I thought I’d look him up.”
“I know he’ll be glad to see you. I’ll go and wake him. He keeps the most dreadful hours. Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Archer?”
I had been standing with my back to the bearded nude, more or less consciously shielding her from it. When I moved aside and she saw it, she didn’t turn a hair.
“What next?” was all she said.
But I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to Hugh Western’s sense of humor. I looked around the room for something that might explain the ugly sketch.
It was a typical working artist’s studio. The tables and benches were cluttered with things that are used to make pictures: palettes and daubed sheets of glass, sketch pads, scratchboards, bleeding tubes of paint. Pictures in half a dozen mediums and half a dozen stages of completion hung or leaned against the burlap-covered walls. Some of them looked wild and queer to me, but none so wild and queer as the sketch on the easel.
There was one puzzling thing in the room, besides the pictures. The wooden doorframe was scarred with a row of deep round indentations, four of them. They were new, and about on a level with my eyes. They looked as if an incredible fist had struck the wood a superhuman blow.
“He isn’t in his room,” the girl said from the doorway. Her voice was very carefully controlled.
“Maybe he got up early.”
“His bed hasn’t been slept in. He’s been out all night.”
“I wouldn’t worry. He’s an adult after all.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t always act like one.” Some feeling buzzed under her calm tone. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger. “He’s twelve years older than I am, and still a boy at heart. A middle-aging boy.”
“I know what you mean. I was his unofficial keeper for a while. I guess he’s a genius, or pretty close to it, but he needs somebody to tell him to come in out of the rain.”
“Thank you for informing me. I didn’t know.”
“Now don’t get mad at me.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I’m a little upset.”
“Has he been giving you a bad time?”
“Not really. Not lately, that is. He’s come down to earth since he got engaged to Alice. But he still makes the weirdest friends. He can tell a fake Van Gogh with his eyes shut, literally, but he’s got no discrimination about people at all.”
“You wouldn’t be talking about me? Or am I having ideas of reference?”
“No.” She smiled again. I liked her smile. “I guess I acted terribly suspicious when I walked in on you. Some pretty dubious characters come to see him.”
“Anyone in particular?” I said it lightly. Just above her head I could see the giant fist-mark on the doorframe.
Before she could answer, a siren bayed in the distance. She cocked her head. “Ten to one it’s for me.”
“Police?”
“Ambulance. The police sirens have a different tone. I’m an X-ray technician at the hospital, so I’ve learned to listen for the ambulance. And I’m on call this morning.”
I followed her into the hall. “Hugh’s show opens tonight. He’s bound to come back for that.”
She turned at the opposite door, her face brightening. “You know, he may have spent the night working in the gallery. He’s awfully fussy about how his pictures are hung.”
“Why don’t I phone the gallery?”
“There’s never anybody in the office till nine.” She looked at her unfeminine steel wristwatch. “It’s twenty to.”
“When did you last see him?”
“At dinner last night. We ate early. He went back to the gallery after dinner. He said he was only going to work a couple of hours.”
“And you stayed here?”
“Until about eight, when I was called to the hospital. I didn’t get home until quite late, and I thought he was in bed.” She looked at me uncertainly, with a little wrinkle of doubt between her straight eyebrows. “Could you be cross-questioning me?”
“Sorry. It’s my occupational disease.”
“What do you do in real life?”
“Isn’t this real?”
“I mean now you’re out of the army. Are you a lawyer?”
“A private detective.”
“Oh. I see.” The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened. I wondered what she’d been reading.
“But I’m on vacation.” I hoped.
A phone burred behind her apartment door. She
went to answer it, and came back wearing a coat. “It was for me. Somebody fell out of a loquat tree and broke a leg. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Archer.”
“Wait a second. If you’ll tell me where the art gallery is, I’ll see if Hugh’s there now.”
“Of course, you don’t know San Marcos.”
She led me to the French windows at the rear end of the hall. They opened on a blacktop parking space which was overshadowed on the far side by a large stucco building, the shape of a flattened cube. Outside the windows was a balcony from which a concrete staircase slanted down to the parking lot. She stepped outside and pointed to the stucco cube:
“That’s the gallery. It’s no problem to find, is it? You can take a shortcut down the alley to the front.”
A tall young man in a black leotard was polishing a red convertible in the parking lot. He struck a pose, in the fifth position, and waved his hand:
“Bonjour, Marie.”
“Bonjour, my phony Frenchman.” There was an edge of contempt on her good humor. “Have you seen Hugh this morning?”
“Not I. Is the prodigal missing again?”
“I wouldn’t say missing—”
“I was wondering where your car was. It’s not in the garage.” His voice was much too musical.
“Who’s he?” I asked her in an undertone.
“Hilary Todd. He runs the art shop downstairs. If the car’s gone, Hugh can’t be at the gallery. I’ll have to take a taxi to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. There’s a cabstand across the street.” She added over her shoulder: “Call me at the hospital if you see Hugh.”
I went down the stairs to the parking lot. Hilary Todd was still polishing the hood of his convertible, though it shone like a mirror. His shoulders were broad and packed with shifting muscle. Some of the ballet boys were strong and could be dangerous. Not that he was a boy, exactly. He had a little round bald spot that gleamed like a silver dollar among his hair.
“Bonjour,” I said to his back.
“Yes?”
My French appeared to offend his ears. He turned and straightened. I saw how tall he was, tall enough to make me feel squat, though I was over six feet. He had compensated for the bald spot by growing sideburns. In combination with his liquid eyes, they gave him a Latin look. Pig Latin.
“Do you know Hugh Western pretty well?”
“If it’s any concern of yours.”
“It is.”
“Now why would that be?”
“I asked the question, sonny. Answer it.”
He blushed and lowered his eyes, as if I had been reading his evil thoughts. He stuttered a little. “I—I—well, I’ve lived below him for a couple of years. I’ve sold a few of his pictures. Why?”
“I thought you might know where he is, even if his sister doesn’t.”
“How should I know where he is? Are you a policeman?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not at all, you mean?” He regained his poise. “Then you have no right to take this overbearing attitude. I know absolutely nothing about Hugh. And I’m very busy.”
He turned abruptly and continued his polishing job, his fine useless muscles writhing under the leotard.
—
I walked down the narrow alley which led to the street. Through the cypress hedge on the left, I caught a glimpse of umbrella tables growing like giant multicolored mushrooms in a restaurant patio. On the other side was the wall of the gallery, its white blankness broken by a single iron-barred window above the level of my head.
The front of the gallery was Greek-masked by a high-pillared porch. A broad flight of concrete steps rose to it from the street. A girl was standing at the head of the steps, half leaning on one of the pillars.
She turned towards me, and the slanting sunlight aureoled her bare head. She had a startling kind of beauty: yellow hair, light hazel eyes, brown skin. She filled her tailored suit like sand in a sack.
“Good morning.”
She pretended not to hear me. Her right foot was tapping the pavement impatiently. I crossed the porch to the high bronze door and pushed. It didn’t give.
“There’s nobody here yet,” she said. “The gallery doesn’t open until ten.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I happen to work here.”
“Why don’t you open up?”
“I have no key. In any case,” she added primly, “we don’t allow visitors before ten.”
“I’m not a tourist, at least at the moment. I came to see Mr. Western.”
“Hugh?” She looked at me directly for the first time. “Hugh’s not here. He lives around the corner on Rubio Street.”
“I just came from there.”
“Well, he isn’t here.” She gave the words a curious emphasis. “There’s nobody here but me. And I won’t be here much longer if Dr. Silliman doesn’t come.”
“Silliman?”
“Dr. Silliman is our curator.” She made it sound as if she owned the gallery. After a while she said in a softer voice: “Why are you looking for Hugh? Do you have some business with him?”
“Western’s an old friend of mine.”
“Really?”
She lost interest in the conversation. We stood together in silence for several minutes. She was tapping her foot again. I watched the Saturday-morning crowd on the street: women in slacks, women in shorts and dirndls, a few men in ten-gallon hats, a few in berets. A large minority of the people had Spanish or Indian faces. Nearly half the cars in the road carried out-of-state licenses. San Marcos was a unique blend of western border town, ocean resort, and artists’ colony.
A small man in a purple corduroy jacket detached himself from the crowd and bounded up the steps. His movements were quick as a monkey’s. His lined face had a simian look, too. A brush of frizzled gray hair added about three inches to his height.
“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, Alice.”
She made a nada gesture. “It’s perfectly all right. This gentleman is a friend of Hugh’s.”
He turned to me. His smile went on and off. “Good morning, sir. What was the name?”
I told him. He shook my hand. His fingers were like thin steel hooks.
“Western ought to be here at any minute. Have you tried his flat?”
“Yes. His sister thought he might have spent the night in the gallery.”
“Oh, but that’s impossible. You mean he didn’t come home last night?”
“Apparently not.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” the blond girl said.
“I didn’t know you were interested.”
“Alice has every right to be interested.” Silliman’s eyes glowed with a gossip’s second-hand pleasure. “She and Hugh are going to be married. Next month, isn’t it, Alice? Do you know Miss Turner, by the way, Mr. Archer?”
“Hello, Mr. Archer.” Her voice was shallow and hostile. I gathered that Silliman had embarrassed her.
“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly,” he said reassuringly. “We still have some work to do on the program for the private showing tonight. Will you come in and wait?”
I said I would.
He took a heavy key ring out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the bronze door, relocking it behind us. Alice Turner touched a switch which lit up the high-ceilinged lobby and the Greek statues standing like frozen sentinels along the walls. There were several nymphs and Venuses in marble, but I was more interested in Alice. She had everything the Venuses had, and the added advantage of being alive. She also had Hugh Western, it seemed, and that surprised me. He was a little old for her, and a little used. She didn’t look like one of those girls who’d have to settle for an aging bachelor. But then Hugh Western had talent.
She removed a bundle of letters from the mail box and took them into the office which opened off the lobby. Silliman turned to me with a monkey grin.
“She’s quite a girl, is she
not? Trust Hugh to draw a circle around the prettiest girl in town. And she comes from a very good family, an excellent family. Her father, the Admiral, is one of our trustees, you know, and Alice has inherited his interest in the arts. Of course she has a more personal interest now. Had you known of their engagement?”
“I haven’t seen Hugh for years, not since the war.”
“Then I should have held my tongue and let him tell you himself.”
As we were talking, he led me through the central gallery, which ran the length of the building like the nave of a church. To the left and right, in what would have been the aisles, the walls of smaller exhibition rooms rose halfway to the ceiling. Above them was a mezzanine reached by an open iron staircase.
He started up it, still talking: “If you haven’t seen Hugh since the war, you’ll be interested in the work he’s been doing lately.”
I was interested, though not for artistic reasons. The wall of the mezzanine was hung with twenty-odd paintings: landscapes, portraits, groups of semi-abstract figures, and more abstract still lifes. I recognized some of the scenes he had sketched in the Philippine jungle, transposed into the permanence of oil. In the central position there was a portrait of a bearded man whom I’d hardly have known without the label, “Self-Portrait.”
Hugh had changed. He had put on weight and lost his youth entirely. There were vertical lines in the forehead, gray flecks in the hair and beard. The light eyes seemed to be smiling sardonically. But when I looked at them from another angle, they were bleak and somber. It was a face a man might see in his bathroom mirror on a cold gray hangover morning.
I turned to the curator hovering at my elbow. “When did he raise the beard?”
“A couple of years ago, I believe, shortly after he joined us as resident painter.”
“Is he obsessed with beards?”
“I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“Neither do I. But I came across a funny thing in his studio this morning. A sketch of a woman, a nude, with a heavy black beard. Does that make sense to you?”
The old man smiled. “I’ve long since given up trying to make sense of Hugh. He has his own esthetic logic, I suppose. But I’d have to see this sketch before I could form an opinion. He may have simply been doodling.”
The Archer Files: The Complete Short Stories of Lew Archer, Private Investigator Page 10
