He grinned at them, back and forth, and both Delaney and Boone pondered.
Finally, the sergeant said, “You got a flash from Geneva that the real drawings were being pushed over there?”
“Nah,” Lieutenant Bernard Wolfe said. “International cooperation isn’t that good yet. But we’re working on it. Maybe if a da Vinci had been glommed, they’d have been alerted. But not on a portfolio of modern drawings. How about you, Chief?”
“The guys in the ski masks tried to unload the fakes over here instead of burning them?”
“Right!” Wolfe said. “They got paid five thou for the ripoff. But then they got to thinking—which was a mistake because they were schmucks. They figured, why settle for the five G’s? They could contact the insurance company and collect maybe another ten or twenty. The insurer would be happy to pay that for recovery. So that’s what they did. A meet was arranged, and the insurance guy showed up with an art expert to make sure he was buying the true-blue stuff. The expert took one look and laughed. So the insurance company walked and tipped me. One thing led to another, and we busted all their asses. So how can I help you on the Maitland thing?”
They were having coffee and dessert by then. American coffee and fresh strawberries for Delaney and Boone, espresso and a kirsch for Wolfe.
“This art scene,” the Chief said fretfully. “We don’t know enough about it. It’s a whole new world. Saul Geltman, Maitland’s dealer—by the way, do you know him?”
“Sure do,” Wolfe said cheerfully. “Nice little guy. Take off your rings before you shake hands with him.”
“Oh-ho,” Delaney said. “Like that, is it? Well, anyway, Geltman told us something of how dealers work with artists. Something about the art-gallery business. What I was hoping to get from you was more about the business of painting from the artist’s point of view. How the money angle works.”
“The money,” Wolfe nodded. “What makes the world go ’round. From an artist’s point of view? Okay. An unsuccessful artist, he’s going to starve. You’re not interested in that. A successful artist, his troubles are just beginning. Let’s take a guy like Maitland, who makes it. Ten, fifteen years ago he’s selling for peanuts. Today his stuff is pulling maybe two hundred thou. Fine, but what happens to the early stuff he was selling for walking-around money when no one knew who he was? I’ll tell you what happens to it: the smartasses who bought it for kreplach, they made the lekach. Buy for a hundred, sell for a thousand. Profits like you wouldn’t believe. And the artist gets nothing of that. Not a cent. Is that right? Of course it isn’t right. Profiting like that on another man’s work. It sucks.”
“I agree,” Delaney nodded. “Don’t the artists scream?”
“Sure they do,” Wolfe said. “For all the good it does them. Buy low, sell high. There’s no law against it. It’s the Eleventh Commandment. Now they’re beginning to really do something about it. They say when you buy a guy’s painting, you should sign an agreement that if you sell for profit in the future, the artist shares. Like ten or twenty percent of the profit. And the guy who buys the painting from the original buyer, if he also eventually sells, he’s also got to share his profit with the artist. And so on.”
“Makes sense to me,” Boone said.
“Of course it makes sense,” Wolfe said indignantly. “The present system is ridiculous. The artist sweats out the work; he should get a least a share of the bonanza if he hits. But the dealers and galleries and museums are fighting it. The old story: money, moola, mazuma. It’ll cut into their take if the artists share. A crock of shit, I tell you. An artist who sold a painting for five hundred bucks ten years ago reads in the paper that it just went for half a mil—how do you think that makes him feel?”
“Is that what happened to Maitland?” Delaney asked.
“Sure,” Wolfe said. “Exactly what happened to Maitland. I met him once. He was a six-ply bastard, but he was right on this thing. It drove him up the wall. Could I have another shot, Chief? All this talking is drying me out.”
“Of course,” Delaney said. “The Department’s treat. Another kirsch?”
“No,” Wolfe said. “I think I’ll go back to the musty ale again. It goes down good. You’re not drinking, sergeant?”
“Not today,” Boone smiled.
“Good man,” Wolfe said. “I spend half my time at exhibition previews and cocktail parties. They booze up a storm. Rots the liver. But it’s all for the Department—right?”
Fresh ales were brought for Delaney and Wolfe. The lieutenant took a deep draft, then bent over the table toward the Chief. His black mustache had an icing of white foam.
“Okay,” he said. “A successful artist like Victor Maitland gets fucked that way: the early paintings he sold for nothing end up getting traded for zillions, and he doesn’t share. But there’s another way he gets screwed. Let’s take a young artist just starting out. He works his ass off. He’s got so much drive and so many hot ideas, he hates to sleep. If he’s lucky, he’s selling maybe one out of every ten paintings. The others pile up—right? In his studio, the basement, the attic, homes of friends—wherever. Maybe he gives them away just to get rid of them. And a lot of these young artists barter paintings for meals and a place to work. So the years pass, the artist gets a wife and kids, and his stuff begins to sell. The prices go up, up, up. Meanwhile, he’s still got the old things that no one wanted. But he keeps them around because that’s all he’s got to leave to his family. In case he drops dead, it’s their inheritance. So one day he does drop dead, and he leaves his wife a few bucks and a studio full of his old paintings. Now this is where the screwing comes in: the U.S. Government, wearing its IRS hat, steps in to evaluate the dead artist’s estate. They say all his old paintings have to be appraised at current market value, regardless of when they were painted. In other words, a very early Maitland is worth a hundred G’s if the last few Maitlands sold on the open market for a hundred G’s. So that’s how they figure the estate tax. And New York State figures their bite on what the IRS estimates. Sometimes the poor widow goes broke trying to pay those estate taxes, and sometimes she has to sell off the entire collection to make good. Just another sweet example of how society shits on the artist. Well … any of this any use to you?”
“Very useful, lieutenant,” Delaney said. “You’ve given us a lot to think about. But tell me this … you say when the artist becomes famous and starts to sell at higher prices, he still has a lot of his early, unsold stuff around. So why doesn’t he sell that, too, as prices go up? Why not get the cash instead of leaving the stuff to his estate?”
“A lot of reasons,” Wolfe said. “Maybe his style has changed completely, and the old stuff looks like crap to him, and he’s ashamed of it. Maybe his dealer tells him to keep it off the market. Listen, scarcity is one factor in the price a dealer can ask. If there’s a warehouse of the guy’s work available, the price drops. If only a few pieces are up for sale, the price goes up and stays up. Why do you think Picasso had so many unsold paintings when he died? Also, a lot of artists know from nothing about estate taxes; they’re lousy businessmen. The poor schlemiel thinks he’s leaving a tidy nest egg for the wife and kiddies, not knowing how it’s going to be reduced by taxes. And also, maybe the artist does a painting that comes out so right, that he likes so much, that he doesn’t ever want to sell it. He puts it on his wall and looks at it. Maybe he’ll even make little changes in it as the years go by. Lighten a tint here, heavy a shadow there. But he’ll keep it for years, maybe never put it up for sale at all. Look, Chief, when you’re talking about artists, you’re dealing with a bunch of nuts. Don’t expect logical behavior from them, or even common sense. They ain’t got it. If they had sense, they’d be truck drivers or shoe salesmen. It’s a tough racket, and most of them fall by the wayside.”
“The reason I asked you why the successful artist didn’t sell his old stuff,” Delaney explained, “is because there were no paintings in Victor Maitland’s studio when the body was found.”
“No paintings?” he repeated. “Nothing started? No canvases half-done? Nothing on his easel? No stacks of finished paintings? Nothing hung up for the varnish to dry. None of his own stuff on the walls?”
“No paintings,” Delaney said patiently. “Not a one.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wolfe said. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been in a million artists’ studios, and every one was jammed with paintings in all stages. The only thing I can figure is that someone cleaned Maitland out. Maybe the guy who whacked him. He should have had at least one painting there. He had the reputation of being a fast worker. But nothing? That smells.”
“We did find three charcoal sketches,” Sergeant Boone said. “Geltman claims they were probably preliminary drawings of a new model Maitland was trying out.”
“Could be,” Wolfe nodded. “They do that sometimes: knock off a few quick sketches of a fresh girl to see if she’s simpatico.”
“That’s another thing,” the Chief said. “Do you know many models?”
“My share,” Wolfe grinned. “Want me to look at the drawings to see if I can make her?”
“Would you? We’d appreciate it.”
“Be glad to. Just tell me where and when. I’m in and out of the office all the time, but you can always leave a message.”
Delaney nodded, and called for the bill. He paid, and they all rose and moved to the door. Out on the sidewalk, they shook hands with the lieutenant and thanked him for his help. He waved it away, and thanked them for the lunch.
“And look into that business of no paintings in the studio,” he said.
The evening was still young, not yet midnight, and perhaps they thought to talk lazily awhile, or maybe even go downstairs again for a late snack. In any event, the room was still lighted, and they lay awake, temporarily sated, when the bedside phone shrilled.
He cleared his throat and answered.
“Edward X. Delaney here.”
It was Rebecca Hirsch, her words tumbling in a torrent, voice screechy, stretched, almost breaking. He tried to interrupt, to slow her down, but she was too distraught to pause. Began weeping, didn’t answer his questions. Finally he just let her rattle, until sobs stopped her. He could reckon then what had happened, was happening.
Abner Boone had called her almost an hour previously, obviously drunk. It was a farewell call; he said he was going to blow his brains out with his service revolver. Rebecca had been in bed, had dressed hastily, hurried over in a cab. Boone was falling-down drunk, bouncing off the walls drunk. He had an almost full bottle, and was drinking from that. Gibbering. When she tried to grab the whiskey from him, he had rushed into the bathroom and locked the door. He was still in there, wouldn’t come out, wouldn’t answer her.
“All right,” Delaney said stonily. “Stay there. If he comes out, don’t try to take the bottle. Speak quietly to him. And keep out of his way. I’ll be right over. Meanwhile, look around. Everywhere. For another bottle. And for a gun. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He hung up and got out of bed. He told Monica what had happened as he dressed. Her face grew bleak.
“You were right,” she said.
“I’ll send Rebecca back here,” he said. “In a cab. Watch for her. I may spend the night there. I’ll call you and tell you what’s happening.”
“Edward, be careful,” she said.
He nodded, and unlocked his equipment drawer in the bedside table. His guns were in there, with cartridges and cleaning tools. A gun belt. Two holsters. Handcuffs. A steel-linked “come-along.” A set of lock picks. But the only thing he took was a leather-covered sap, about eight inches long. It stuck out of his hip pocket, but the tail of his jacket covered it. He relocked the drawer carefully.
“Come down with me and put the chain on when I leave,” he told Monica. “Open it only for Rebecca. Get some hot coffee into her, and maybe a shot of brandy.”
“Be careful, Edward,” she repeated.
Outside, he paused until he heard the chain clink into place. Then he debated how he could make the best time, cab or walking. He decided on a cab, strode over to First Avenue as quickly as he could. He waited for almost five minutes, then stepped into the path of an oncoming hack showing Off-duty lights. It squealed to a halt, the bumper a foot away. The furious driver leaned out.
“Cancha—” he began bellowing.
“Five to East Eighty-fifth Street,” Delaney said, waving the bill.
“Get in,” the driver said.
At Boone’s apartment house, there was a night doorman on duty, sitting behind a high counter. He looked up as Delaney stalked in.
“Yes?” he said.
“Abner Boone’s apartment.”
“I need your name,” the doorman said. “I gotta ring up first. Rules.”
“Delaney.”
The doorman picked up his phone, dialed a three-digit number.
“A Mr. Delaney to see Mr. Boone,” he said.
He hung up and looked at the Chief.
“A woman answered,” he said suspiciously.
“My daughter,” Delaney said coldly.
“I don’t want no trouble,” the doorman said.
“Neither do I,” Delaney said. “I’ll waltz her out of here nice and quiet, and you never saw a thing.”
The doorman’s hand folded around the proffered sawbuck.
“Right,” he said.
When he got off the elevator, Rebecca was waiting in the corridor, hands wrestling. She didn’t look good to him: greenish-white, hair dank and scraggly, pupils dilated, lips bitten. He knew the signs.
“Yes, yes,” he said softly. He slid an arm gently about her shoulders. “All right now. All right.”
“I didn’t,” she stammered. “He wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Yes, yes,” he repeated in a monotone, drew her into the apartment, closed the door behind him. “He’s still in there?”
She nodded dumbly. She began to shake, her entire soft body trembling. He stood apart from her, but touched her with his hands: patted her shoulders, stroked her arms, pressed her hands lightly.
“Yes, yes,” he intoned. “All right. All right now. It’s going to be all right. Deep breath. Come on, take a deep breath. Another. That’s it. That’s fine.”
“He can’t—” she choked.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Of course. Now come on over here and sit down. Just for a minute. Lean on me. That’s right. That’s it. Now just breathe deeply. Catch your breath. Good. Good.”
He sat beside her a few moments until breathing eased, trembling stopped. He brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. She gulped frantically, water spilling down her chin. He went through the bedroom to the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the thin wooden paneling. He heard mumbling, a few incoherent words. He tried the knob gently; the door was still locked.
He went back, sat down beside her. He took her hands again.
“Rebecca?” he said. “Better?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s good. You’re looking better, too. Did you find another bottle?”
She shook her head violently, hair flying.
“A gun?”
The headshake again.
“All right. Now I’m going to do something, but I need your help. Do you think you can help me?”
“What?” she said. “Will he—”
“We’ve got to get the whiskey away from him,” he explained patiently, looking into her eyes. “And his gun. You understand?”
She nodded.
“I’m going to break in. As suddenly and quickly as I can. I’ll try to get the bottle first. He may resist. You know that, don’t you, Rebecca?”
Again she nodded.
“If I get hold of the bottle, I’ll hand it to you or toss it to you. Then I’ll take care of the gun. But your responsibility is the bott
le. Grab it any way you can and run. Take it to the kitchen sink and empty it. Don’t worry if it falls. Just make sure it’s emptied, in the sink, on the floor, out the window—I don’t care. Just get rid of the booze. Can you do that, Rebecca?”
“I—I think I can. You won’t—won’t hurt him, will you?”
“I don’t want to,” he said. “But you just worry about dumping the whiskey. All right?”
“All right,” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt him, Edward. He’s sick.”
“I know,” he said grimly. “And he’s going to be sicker. Think you can handle it now? Good. Let’s go.”
He led her to the bathroom door, a hand under her elbow. He positioned her behind him, to his right. He managed to transfer the leather-covered sap to his righthand jacket pocket. He didn’t think she saw it.
He glanced at her, hoped she’d do. He stood directly in front of the bathroom door.
“This is Chief Edward X. Delaney,” he called in a loud, harsh voice. “Come out of there, Boone.”
There was mumbling. Then a slurred, “G’fuck y’self.”
“This is Chief Edward—” Delaney began again, then raised his right knee high, almost to his chin, and drove his right foot against the door, just above the lock and knob. There was a splintering crack, the door sprung wide, smacked the tiled wall, began to bounce back. But by then Delaney was inside, moving fast.
Abner Boone, sitting hunched over on the closed toilet seat, bottle close to his mouth, couldn’t react fast enough. Delaney grabbed the bottle away with a wide swipe, tossed it behind him, heard it thump to the bedroom rug, heard Rebecca’s gasp. He didn’t glance back.
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