The Specialty of the House

by Stanley Ellin

  ‘We’ve got all the privacy we need here,’ Piron assured him. ‘Hardly anybody seems to be in the market for broken bottles.’

  ‘Very smart.’

  ‘It is, if I say so myself. And those pieces of junk you’re looking at are all so damn big you’d have to buy a cathedral to put them in. No, you don’t have to worry about any customers popping in here while we settle our business. All you have to worry about is making me happy. And you can start by sitting down at that table there and keeping your hands on it.’

  The man was standing behind him. Walt gingerly turned his head and saw the malevolent-looking little automatic levered at his back.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ retorted Piron. ‘After what happened a couple of years ago to the guy who operated over in the Belleville district, I take no chances. I also heard something unpleasant happened to that poor stiff in Naples who got out of line before that. So you sit quiet and don’t do anything to make me nervous. If you even want to blow your nose, ask me first.’

  Walt sat down at the table and rested his hands on it, palms down. He leaned back to give the camera and its accessory case clearance. ‘You seem to know a lot of things that aren’t strictly your business,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s what it comes to. We pay, or you sing to the cops.’

  Piron stood a few feet away from the table, the gun steady in his hand. ‘That’s what it comes to.’

  ‘And what do you sing about?’ Walt inquired placidly. ‘A couple of crooks being bumped off? Who would you finger for those jobs? Mercier? I guarantee he’s got an alibi for both of them that would make you look silly.’

  ‘Sure he has. But maybe I know a lot more about your whole operation than just what happened to those two stiffs. Do I look like the kind of idiot who’d try to put the squeeze on you unless I did?’

  ‘You’re bluffing. It’s a nice try, but it’s only a bluff.’

  ‘The hell it is. You want to hear how much I know?’

  ‘If you put that gun away. It’s hard to concentrate with a gun shoved in your face.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Piron said with venom, ‘but it took me a lot of trouble to get this story together, and I’d hate to be interrupted while I’m telling it. After it’s over you can judge just what you’re up against and what kind of deal you’ll have to make.’

  ‘I still say you’re bluffing.’

  ‘Am I? Then listen to this. For one thing, your stuff is being turned out in some plant in America. A big classy print shop. And you’ve got a first-class engraver stashed away there doing the plates, a real genius who used to turn out counterfeit for the military during the war that they dumped in Germany and Italy. The records say he’s been dead for twenty years, but you and I know better, don’t we? We know that fancy print shop is just a front for the jobs he’s still turning out in the back room, don’t we?’

  Walt shrugged. ‘It’s your story,’ he said.

  ‘And a good one, too, isn’t it? Maybe worth plenty more than you figured on paying when you walked in here. Because I also happen to know you’re too smart to turn out American counterfeit and stir up trouble at home. No, all these years it’s strictly franc notes, and lire, and deutsche marks, and maybe pesetas and pounds, too, all shipped inside those pretty bookbinding jobs to dealers like Mercier here, and the one in Naples, and another one in Berlin, and so on all over the place. And they turn over the stuff to small-timers like me to get rid of at thirty percent of the face value of which I can keep a lousy five percent. Five percent,’ Piron said with scathing contempt, ‘and for taking all the risks. Well, it’s not enough. That’s what I told Mercier and what I’m telling you now. When you know as much as I do you don’t rate as a small-timer any more, and you don’t have to settle for small-time pay!’

  ‘What kind of pay did you have in mind?’ Walt said.

  ‘Oho!’ Piron leered at him in golden-toothed triumph. ‘So you’re singing a different tune now. That’s a good joke, all right. You sing sweet or I sing sour.’

  ‘You’re wasting time. Get to the point.’

  ‘I will. I don’t like these commission deals where I only get my cut from the stuff I peddle. That means when things are slow I could starve to death here. I want some cash, too. Whenever Mercier hands me a bundle of the stuff I want him to stick a wad of real money in my fist. A big wad.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Let’s do it this way,’ Piron said coldly. ‘You name me a figure, and I’ll tell you if it makes me happy.’

  Walt shrugged. ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll make the first payment myself right now. But you have to put that gun away. You ought to know you’re not scaring me with it. You’re not really so stupid you’d want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.’

  ‘And you can’t be sure of that until you’ve tried me out,’ jeered Piron, the gun remaining fixed on its target. ‘Now let’s see your money. And it better be government issue, too, none of your pretty art works.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want to do it,’ said Walt. He slowly stood up, apparently oblivious of the menacing gun, and pressed the catch of the bulky leather case resting against the roundness of his belly.

  ‘Hold it!’ snarled Piron. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘The money’s in here.’

  ‘I’ll see for myself. Just stick that thing on the table.’

  Walt unslung the case from around his neck and placed it on the table. Piron approached it as warily as if it might blow up in his face. He prodded its cover back, his eyes never leaving Walt, and lifted out a sizeable roll of franc notes bound with a heavy rubber band. He hefted the roll.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. How much is it?’

  ‘You’ll find out when you count it,’ Walt said. ‘But one thing has to be understood. This is what you’re on the payroll for from now on, and it’s what Mercier will have ready for you when you report to him. But try to put the bite on us for more. and you’ll be in real trouble.’

  ‘And you know what real trouble is, don’t you?’ gibed Piron.

  ‘Don’t strain yourself being funny. Is it a deal?’

  ‘If this is real money. You can pay off some pigeon in counterfeit, not me.’

  ‘All right,’ Walt said impatiently, ‘take a look at it. Hold it up to the light and see for yourself.’

  Piron thrust his gun into his pocket, unsnapped the rubber band from the roll of banknotes, and selected one from the middle of the roll. He held it up to the uncertain light of the kerosene lamp, stretching it tight between his fingers, examining it with the eye of experience.

  He had time for only one choked cry when the leather strap of the carrying case was snapped around his neck in a garrotte. His hands flailed the air wildly as Walt, leaning back against the edge of the table, a knee planted solidly in the small of the man’s back, drew the garrotte steadily tighter.

  Piron’s body arched against the restraining knee until it seemed his spine must crack. The only sound in the room was a strangled wheezing in his chest which finally dwindled into total silence. When Walt released his grip on the garrotte, the lifeless body sagged to the floor and lay face up, features distorted and sightless eyes glaring at the ceiling.

  Any of the armoires in the place had room in it to store a body with twice Piron’s heft. With unhurried efficiency Walt unlocked one, placed Piron’s remains in it, and locked it. Carefully he polished its massive key with his handkerchief; then, using the handkerchief as a sling, he tossed the key on top of a highboy in a far corner of the shanty where it landed with a metallic clatter.

  That chore attended to, he polished the tabletop with the handkerchief, reclaimed the banknote from the floor where it had fluttered from Piron’s hand, replaced it in the roll of banknotes which he thrust into his pocket. He slung the camera case around his neck and looked the room over to make sure everything was in order. Satisfied it was, he doused the kero
sene lamp, slid back the bolt on the door with his elbow, casually walked out of the shanty, and swung the door shut behind him with another thrust of the elbow. Then he joined the crowd in the teeming, sunlit roadway and moved along at its tempo, taking in the sights around him with bland interest.

  Millie was still at her haggling in the furniture mart when he got back to it. He could see her inside, volubly addressing its proprietor, and he patiently waited outside the place until she appeared before him, her face glowing.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ she told him eagerly. ‘It’s rosewood and only six hundred dollars and that includes shipping. Walt, you don’t mind if it costs a little more than we figured, do you?’

  ‘Not if it’s what you want,’ Walt said.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ Millie said. ‘You really are.’ Then she remembered. ‘What about you? Did you find those coins Ed wanted? Those old pennies?’

  ‘I did. Took care of the deal just the way I was supposed to.’

  ‘Old faithful,’ Millie said teasingly. She squeezed his hand. ‘But oh, Walt, you really should have seen me take care of that biddy inside. Believe it or not, she started off by asking a thousand!’

  ‘A thousand? Say, that’s pretty steep.’

  ‘Well, it was your fault,’ Millie said accusingly. ‘I’ll guarantee she took one good look at you and decided, well, here’s some more of those stupid tourists who’ll fall for anybody’s hard-luck story.’

  ‘I guess she did,’ said Walt, apologetically.

  Kindly Dig Your Grave

  The story of Madame Lagrue, the most infamously successful dealer in bad art on Butte-Montmartre, and of O’Toole, the undernourished painter, and of Fatima, the vengeful model who loved O’Toole, and of what happened to them, properly begins in Madame Lagrue’s gallery on rue Hyacinthe.

  It is possible that the worst art in the whole world was displayed on the walls of the Galerie Lagrue.

  Madame, of course, did not know this, nor, one must surmise, did her customers. To Madame, every picture on her walls from the leaden landscapes to the cunning kittens peeping out of boots – every one of these was beautiful.

  That was the first reason for her fantastic success as a dealer in low-priced art – her abominable taste.

  The second reason was that long before any of her competitors, Madame Lagrue had smelled out the renaissance in faraway America. After the war, all over that golden land, it seemed, the middle-aged middle class had developed a furious appetite for, as Madame’s brochure so neatly described it, genuine works of art, hand-painted on high quality canvas by great French artists for reasonable prices.

  So, when the trickle of American interior decorators and department-store buyers became a tide regularly lapping at the summit of Butte-Montmartre, Madame was ready for it. Before her competitors around the Place du Tertre in the shadow of Sacre-Coeur knew what was happening, she had cornered the fattest part of the market, and where others occasionally sold a picture to a passing tourist, she sold pictures by the dozen and by the gross to a wholesale clientele.

  Then, having created a sellers’ market among those who produced the kittens and clowns, Madame saw to it that she was not made the victim of any economic law dictating that she pay higher prices for this merchandise.

  Here, her true talent as an art dealer emerged most brilliantly.

  Most of the artists she dealt with were a shabby, spiritless lot of hacks, and, as Madame contentedly observed, their only pressing need was for a little cash in hand every day. Not enough to corrupt them, of course, but barely enough for rent, food, and drink and the materials necessary for creating their pictures.

  So where Madame’s competitors, lacking her wealth, offered only dreams of glory – they would price your picture at 100 francs and give you half of that if it sold – Madame offered the reality of 20 or 30 francs cash in hand. Or, perhaps, only ten francs. But it was cash paid on the spot, and it readily bought her first claim on the services of the painters who supplied her stock in trade.

  The danger was that since Madame needed the painters as much as the painters needed Madame, it put them in a good bargaining position. It was to solve this problem that she invented a method of dealing with her stable which would have made Torquemada shake his head in admiration.

  The painter, work in hand, was required to present himself at her office, a dank and frigid cubbyhole behind the showroom with barely enough room in it for an ancient rolltop desk and swivel chair and an easel on which the painting was placed for Madame’s inspection. Madame, hat firmly planted on her head as if to assert her femininity – that hat was like a large black flower-pot worn upside down with a spray of dusty flowers projecting from its crown – would sit like an empress in the swivel chair and study the painting with an expression of distaste, her eyes narrowing and lips compressing as she examined its details. Then on a piece of scrap paper, carefully shielding the paper with her other hand to conceal it, she would jot down a figure.

  That was the price the artist had to meet. If he asked a single franc more than the figure on that scrap of paper, he would be turned away on the spot. There was no second chance offered, no opportunity to bargain. He might have started out from his hutch on rue Norvins confident that the property under his arm was worth at least 50 francs this time. Before he was halfway to rue Hyacinthe, the confidence would have dwindled, the asking price fallen to 40 francs or even 30 as the image of Madame Lagrue’s craggy features rose before him. By the time he had propped his picture on the easel he was willing to settle for 20 and praying that the figure she was mysteriously noting on her scrap paper wasn’t ten.

  ‘A vous la balle,’ Madame would say, meaning it was his turn to get into the game. ‘How much?’

  Thirty, the painter would think desperately. Every leaf on those trees is painted to perfection. You can almost hear the water of that brook gurgling. This one is worth at least 30. But that sour look on the old miser’s face. Maybe she’s in no mood for brooks and trees this morning—

  ‘Twenty?’ he would say faintly, the sweat cold on his brow.

  Madame would hold up the scrap of paper before him to read for himself, and whatever he read there would fill him with helpless rage. If he had asked too little, he could only curse his lack of courage. If too much, it meant no sale, and there was no use raising a hubbub about it. Madame did not tolerate hubbubs, and since she had the massive frame and short temper of a Norman farmhand, one respected her sensibilities in such matters.

  No, all one could do was take a rejected picture to Florelle, the dealer down the block, and offer it to him for sale at commission, which meant waiting a long time or forever for any return on it. Or, if Madame bought the picture, take the pittance she offered and head directly to the Cafe Hyacinthe next door for a few quick ones calculated to settle the nerves. Next to Madame Lagrue herself, it was the Cafe Hyacinthe that profited most from her method of dealing with her painters.

  A vous la balle. It was a bitter jest among the painters in Madame’s stable, a greeting they sometimes used acidly on one another, the croaking of a bird of ill omen which nightmarishly entered their dreams and could only be muted by the happy thought of some day landing a fist on Madame’s bulbous nose.

  Of them all, the one who was worst treated by Madame and yet seemed to suffer least under her oppression was O’Toole, the American painter who had drifted to Butte-Montmartre long ago in pursuit of his art. He was at least as shabby and unkempt and undernourished as the others, but he lived with a perpetual, gentle smile of intoxication on his lips, sustained by his love of painting and by the cheapest marc the Cafe Hyacinthe could provide.

  Marc is distilled from the grape pulp left in the barrel after the wine is pressed, and when the wine happens to be a Romanee-Conti of a good year its marc makes an excellent drink. The Cafe Hyacinthe’s marc, on the other hand, was carelessly, sometimes surreptitiously, distilled from the pulp of unripe grapes going to make the cheapest vin du pays, and it had the tast
e and impact of grape-flavored gasoline.

  As far as anyone could tell, it provided all the sustenance O’Toole required, all the vision he needed to paint an endless succession of pastoral scenes in the mode of the Barbizon School. The ingredients of each scene were the same – a pond, a flowery glen, a small stand of birch trees – but O’Toole varied their arrangement, sometimes putting the trees on one side of the pond, sometimes on the other. The warmth of a bottle of marc in his belly, the feel of the brush in his hand, this was all the bliss O’Toole asked for.

  He had had a hard time of it before entering Madame’s stable. During the tourist season each year he had worked at a stand near the Place du Tertre doing quick portraits in charcoal – Likeness Guaranteed Or Your Money Back – but business was never good since, although the likenesses were indisputable, naive and kindly mirror images, the portraits were wholly uninspired. His heart just wasn’t in them. Trees and flowery glens and ponds, that was where his heart lay. The discovery that Madame Lagrue was willing to put money in his hand for them was the great discovery of his life. He was her happiest discovery, too. Those pastorals, she soon learned, were much in demand by the Americans. They sold as fast as she could put them on display.

  O’Toole was early broken in to Madame’s method of doing business. That first terrible experience when he was taught there was no retreat from his overestimate of a picture’s value, no chance to quote a second price, so that he had to trudge away, pastoral under his arm unsold, had been enough to break his spirit completely. After that, all he asked was 20 francs for a large picture and ten for a small one and so established almost a happy relationship with Madame.

  The one break in the relationship had been where Florelle, who owned the shop on the other side of the Cafe Hyacinthe and who was not a bad sort for an art dealer, had finally persuaded him to hand over one of his paintings for sale at commission. The next time O’Toole went to do business with Madame Lagrue he was dismayed to find her regarding him with outright loathing.