by P. N. Elrod
The office was locked, which was no problem; I just slipped inside. The desk drawers were also locked. Problem. Breaking the drawers open wouldn’t be very nice and I didn’t have Escort’s talent for undetectable burglary. One of these nights I’d have to ask him for a few basic lessons. My curiosity wasn’t that urgent, though, and neither was Brett’s, as far as I was concerned. He could have the name of the place and run his own investigation.
Escott wasn’t home when I woke up the next night, but he’d read my note and gotten the requested cash from his hidden safe. Because of the big crash, neither of us trusted banks, and because of his association with me, we’d both ended up with a parcel of money that needed a cache. His solution was to purchase an extremely solid safe and then carefully hide it.
He had a passion for secret panels, hidden doors, and similar camouflage, and the skill to indulge himself. The original basement steps were made of wood, hardly more than a scaffold running along the wall. He thought they were too rickety for regular use and had a crew come in and build something considerably more solid. He was careful to choose bricks that matched those on the outside of his house and then went to some effort to age them so that they would look like part of the original construction. He supervised the whole thing and even tried his hand at bricklaying, then paid off the workmen before they had finished the job.
He lugged the safe into the dead space under the stairs and started building up the courses. By the time he was finished, the safe was sealed in for the life of the house, but by pushing on a certain brick, four square feet of a solid-looking wall pivoted open, giving one complete access to the combination lock and door. He piled a few pieces of old furniture around the stairs to complete the effect of a derelict area. It was a neat job and he was proud of it.
I had the combination, but usually had him play teller whenever I needed money because he was particular about preserving the dust around the opening. When I checked, there was no evidence he’d touched the area in months, but the cash was in an envelope on the table next to my earth-layered cot. I switched the money to my wallet, picked out some clothes, and went upstairs to call Adrian.
Sandra answered.
“I thought you might be home by now,” I said after identifying myself.
She had an unmistakable smile in her voice, which was very interesting. “No, Adrian insisted we stay a little longer, just in case. I don’t mind.”
The way she was looking at Adrian last night certainly supported that statement. I told her I was dropping by in an hour and to let Adrian know about it. She said yes, hung up, and then I called Bobbi.
“Want to meet the man who’s going to immortalize you?”
“I’ve only been waiting all day. No offense,” she added.
“None taken, I’ll be right by.”
My last call was to Leighton Brett, and I left the name of Cordy’s decorator with one of the maids. From there on he was on his own.
Bobbi was dressed in a beautiful cream-colored suit with touches of brown velvet on the lapels and wrists. The hemline was low enough to be in fashion, but high enough to maintain a man’s interest; the neckline deep, but not scandalous. She looked perfect, and all I wanted to do when I saw her was rip off the wrappings and carry her to the nearest couch for some serious fooling around. I settled for a kiss of greeting for the moment and escorted her down to my car.
We were both full of talk, the kind of happy nonsense that all lovers indulge in. She was still flying high from her job last night and her agent was arranging yet another radio spot.
“Will it be national again?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ve got that local broadcast next Saturday. Will you come to the studio and watch?”
“Just try and stop me. Need a ride there?”
“Of course.”
“Marza, too?” This was less enthusiastically offered.
“Not this time, she has a job elsewhere that night.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.”
“Admit it, Jack, you’re ready to turn handsprings.”
“Not really, I’d have to stop the car first.”
I parked in Adrian’s drive just behind his black coupe and opened Bobbi’s door. “You nervous?”
“A little. I can’t help but wonder about his wife.”
The thought had occurred to me as well, but there wasn’t much I could do about the situation. We walked up to the front door, which was immediately opened by Sandra. She’d exchanged her party clothes for some wide-legged slacks and a bright scarf to keep her curly hair in place. She had a dust cloth in one hand, a spotted apron around her slim waist, and looked very domestic except for the impishness in her eyes. She let us in and I did introductions.
“You’re just in time for fresh coffee.” She led the way to the kitchen, which had changed considerably since last night. The curtains were clean and the clutter cleared. You could actually sit at the table and see what it looked like. “It’s funny, but it’s so much easier to clean someone else’s place than your own. Cream and sugar?”
Bobbi had a cup, I politely begged off. “I hope this wasn’t too disruptive for you.”
“What? Getting yanked out of my own home in fear for my life? Whatever gave you that idea?”
I thought of telling her it was all right to go back, but decided it would be best to let Evan know first. He may have had a rough time from Sandra today about his shortcomings and would be glad for some good news to give her.
“It hasn’t been so bad, and I think the company’s been good for Alex, but I’ll want to go back soon.”
“Too much housework?” asked Bobbi.
“Not enough paint. I never feel good about myself unless I paint a little each day, and cleaning isn’t very spiritually fulfilling, if you know what I mean.”
Bobbi commiserated, then I asked about Adrian.
“He’s in his studio. He’s been getting things ready since he got up this morning. I’m so happy to see him starting work again. This is what he’s needed for so long.”
“I should think the magazines would still want his art.”
“They do, but since the … since his wife died he’s refused their commissions. He’d shut himself away for so long we were afraid he’d never come out. I hope this will help him to do it.”
“So do we. How’s Evan doing?”
“He’s got some awful bruises, but seems to feel all right. He’s in the studio helping Alex. The place has been shut tight since January so there-was some cleaning to do.”
“If we’ve come too soon—”
“Not at all. Alex said this was the business meeting and he’ll want to set up a schedule for the sittings with Miss Smythe. I’ll take you through now.”
The studio was just off the kitchen, a very large room seamlessly added onto the original lines of the house. A bank of high windows ran along its north wall to catch the light. They were open even now but covered with long white curtains that moved with the night breeze like lazy ghosts.
Except for an overstuffed couch and chair in the center, all the furnishings were geared toward Adrian’s work. On one end were two slanted drawing tables, one with a light arranged beneath it to shine up through its translucent top. Other, more obscure equipment lined the walls and a huge bank of shelving held his supplies and finished work. In the center of the room was his easel, heavier and more complicated than the ones the Robleys owned. I felt like an intruder in a sorcerer’s cave.
“Jack!” Evan looked up from his beer and hobbled over. His eye was still swollen shut and the area around it was gorgeously colored. “Recovered from last night, eh? Boy, was that a party or what?”
“Bobbi, this is Mr. Robley …”
He took her hand and tenderly kissed the back of it. “Evan to you, my sweet, and I’m your slave for life.”
“Which is hardly an asset,” said Adrian, stepping forward. “I’m Alex Adrian, Miss Smythe. I enjoyed your singing at the party very much.” He ne
atly slipped her hand away from Evan and shook it, then mine. “Please come in.” He gestured at the sofa and pulled up an old chair for himself. He looked different from last night; less formal and guarded. His manner with Bobbi hinted at the possibility of some considerable personal charm.
Sandra disappeared and Evan puttered in the background of the studio while we worked out the less artistic details of creation. There was some discussion on the size of canvas to be used and how to pose Bobbi.
“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “You’re the expert. Have you a recommendation?”
“Yes,” Evan said promptly.
“Be decent for once,” Adrian warned.
“What I recommend is a neoclassic version of Goya’s Maja Desnuda with less surrounding background.”
“I told you to be decent.”
“Well, she can leave her clothes on, of course! It’s the pose I’m talking about—that air of sensual relaxation. If you don’t pick up on that, Alex, I swear I’ll come in and paint it myself.”
“You may try.”
“What kind of pose?” asked Bobbi, carefully separating the words.
Adrian smiled. “Evan is suggesting I do a full-length portrait of you reclining on pillows. The choice of what to wear or not wear is entirely up to you, though.”
“Oh, good,” she said in mock relief.
The next point to work out were the sittings, something I’d have to miss since they’d be during the day for the sunlight. Evan’s input had its effect and Bobbi asked if it would be all right if she could bring a friend along to watch. Adrian had no illusions about her wish for a chaperon, but then he had no objections, either.
“Three sittings, then,” he announced. “An hour or so each should take care of it.”
“But shouldn’t it take much longer? I thought these things went on for weeks.”
Evan broke in again. “Not with an expert like Alex and his style of work. What you’re paying for is all the training he soaked up in the fancy French art institute he went to.”
“And you should go there, Evan.”
“There’s a difference between an institute and an institution, no, thank you. Besides, I don’t speak French.”
I gave Adrian his half payment in an envelope. He seemed to approve of the straight cash and made out a receipt, which concluded the business meeting.
“If you’ve the time,” he said, “I can make a preliminary sketch right now, just to block in the general form.”
Bobbi glanced at me. I shrugged and nodded. Adrian had me move off the couch, produced a pillow, and told Bobbi to get comfortable. She suppressed a grin and relaxed back on the pillow. Adrian stood off a few feet, returned, and adjusted the position of her arm and backed off again.
“There’s some strain on the line of the neck,” Evan observed.
Adrian took the suggestion and tilted Bobbi’s head a little. When he was satisfied he pulled one of the drawing tables from the wall and went to the storage shelves for a huge sheet of clean paper and a stick of charcoal. He made a half dozen sweeping lines and added a few precise strokes for details.
His face was totally different now that he was focused on the work. I saw serenity as well as concentration. Evan and I no longer existed for him; all that was important was his eye, his hand, and the model.
He reached a stopping point and had Bobbi come over for a look. Evan and I crowded in as well. The sofa had turned into a chaise lounge covered in plump pillows, but not so much that they overwhelmed Hobbi’s reclining figure. She was languid but with an alertness in her eyes that seemed to dare the viewer to come closer. Her clothes were more suggestive of sweeping robes than the smart suit she wore, but anything else would have been inappropriate for the mood he was setting up.
“Is that what you see?” she asked.
“On a good day, yes. Will it do?”
“Absolutely. If this is the sketch, I can’t wait to see the finished painting. This is like magic.”
“Evan, I’ve some prepared canvas somewhere….”
“Yeah, I put them … I’ll get them.” He rooted around and produced several sterile white canvases, already stretched and nailed over wood frames. Adrian chose the largest and put it on the massive easel.
I thought he’d repeat the sketch on the canvas, but instead he took a pin to the paper and punched tiny holes through it along all the major lines.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered to Evan.
“It’s how he transfers the sketch,” he whispered back. “When he’s got enough holes in it, he’ll position the drawing where he wants on the canvas, then hit at it with a small bag of charcoal dust. The holes allow the dust to leave a guide mark for him to follow.”
“Why not just draw on the canvas?”
“Too hard to clean off if you should change your mind about something.”
The sketch drifted to the floor as he shifted his attention to the canvas, and I could see now how he was able to keep up with the demands the magazines had put on him. Only a few more minutes passed and he added in all the necessary details. Bobbi’s face appeared out of the Mankinds, taking on expression and life.
He stood back again, studying it with a critical eye, but was apparently satisfied. “That will do for tonight, tomorrow I’ll sec to the under-painting, and you can come by the day after for the first sitting.”
“I still can’t get over the speed,” she said.
Adrian found a rag and scrubbed at the charcoal dust clinging to his fingers. “Most of the time involved has to do with allowing the paint to dry—at least that’s how it is for the way I work. All I ask is that after the final varnish dries you take it to a decent framer.”
“We wouldn’t do anything less.”
Bobbi was looking with interest at some of the painted canvases stacked in slots and asked to see them, and Adrian obliged. Evan said he wanted another beer and invited me for one as well. I again turned down the offered drink, but tagged along to the kitchen.
“I’ve got some good news for you,” I said as he searched the icebox. “I talked to a friend of mine and he’s telling Dimmy to lay off on the interest payments.”
He stopped cold. “Say that again.”
I repeated it.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked with amiable suspicion.
“Someone with an interest in art. He knows Dimmy and said he’d fix it. You and Sandra can probably go back home now.”
“Honestly?”
“True blue.”
“How in the world did you do it?”
“Well …”
“Never mind. Perhaps it’s better I don’t ask, you shouldn’t question miracles, they’re too few and far between.” He popped the cap from a brown bottle. “This is great, really. I don’t know what to say—except thanks—and that I don’t plan to go home just yet.”
“Yeah?”
He glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot and lowered his voice. “It’s Sandra. You see, she’s, well … it’s her and Alex. You know … last night.” He took a swig off the beer. “I was a bit out of things, but not that far out. Maybe I’m supposed to get upset since she’s my sister, but she’s a big girl now and—”
“Why should you stand in the way of romance?”
“Exactly! To tell the truth, I’d like to see her safely married or whatever to whoever—or is it whomever? Anyway, having Alex for a brother-in-law can’t be much worse than having him for a friend, and she could do worse herself. Besides, it would get her out of my hair, that awful little walk-up we live in, and into his hair and a very cozy house, which is just what she needs.”
“I hope it works out for you.”
“Same here, so I won’t come out with the glad news for a while yet, and I’m going to be fairly well oiled or at least look like I am before I turn in tonight to give them plenty of opportunity for more innocent sinning.”
“Very considerate, but if you don’t mind a personal question—”
“Y
ou’ve saved my life, so feel free.”
“I was wondering about his late wife.”
“Oh. That.” His face fell. “What d’ya want to know?”
“Why did she kill herself?”
“Oh, I thought—” He caught himself and started over. “There you have me, friend. It took us all by surprise. I mean Celia and Alex had their rough moments like any other couple, but when she … well, it left us all flabbergasted. She seemed very normal and all. Normal, you know? It fairly tore Alex up. He looked like death himself for a while. I think that party last night was the first time he’s really been out of the house since it happened.”
“She leave a note?”
“Yeah, she said she just couldn’t go on any longer. It was next to her on the car seat. You know how she died?”
“Yes, Reva mentioned it to me.”
“Reva.” He smiled. “Lovely girl … It shocked her, too. She and Celia were very good friends; they were both models. Celia married her artist, and Reva’s about to, so I suppose they had a lot of notes to compare on the subject, not that Alex or Leighton are even remotely alike.”
“How so?”
“They both paint and wear clothes and eat food, but beyond that they’re night and day, stylistically and temperamentally. Like all that business in the studio, it was taken care of with a minimum of fuss and bother in about a quarter hour, right? If you’d gone to Leighton for the work you’d still be talking—and talking. He’s more showman than anything. If someone comes to him for a commission he puts them to a lot of trouble so they think they’re getting their money’s worth. Then he’d have your girl sitting for a couple hours every day for two or three weeks so you think he’s really earning his fee.”
“That’s what we expected with Alex.”
“And he didn’t give it to you. Art is a business with both of them, but Alex just gets on with it, and if people are disappointed with the lack of show, the finished product makes up for it.”
“I’ll say. That sketch he did was really great.”
“And you don’t need to worry about the painting, he’ll do something to knock your eyes out.”
