Death Paints the Picture Page 4

  “If this isn’t terrific,” he snapped. “Queen Features covers the Shipley suicide. You’re Homer Bull, aren’t you?”

  Homer nodded and shook his hand. “Nicky English?”

  “The same. What in hell brings you here, Bull?” He eyed Homer narrowly and his thin lips curled.

  “I’m a guest, Nicky. A little late, but not too late for the fun, eh?”

  “You oughta know,” he leered. “Maybe I can’t see the comic strip angle.” He shrugged and sat down.

  Nicky was nasty. But Nicky was smart. He had to be. I knew him only from the little photo slug over his column in the Daily Star. Rumor, gossip and slander were also meat to the millions of readers who ferreted in his column for the insidious malignancies he knew how to dish out. Nicky’s column. Nicky’s New York, was syndicated to over four hundred newspapers daily, including the Lithuanian.

  Homer took a deep breath and said: “It would be a help if I could review the discovery of Hugo Shipley’s body. I have already spoken to Lester and Mrs. Minton.” He turned to smile at Olympe Deming. “You were next in the room, weren’t you, Miss Deming?”

  I caught her nod and pulled out my pencil to sketch the characters, reading from left to right around the room. That was why Eileen was first on my sketch pad. I fumbled with Eileen. She was too pretty. You can’t do much with even features—not if you’re a cartoonist. I couldn’t make Eileen pretty enough. I missed my watercolor box; her blue eyes were that tempting. And her hair—it would have been a thrill to put that shade of brown against the smooth pink wash of her skin. (It was even more beautiful when she caught my eye and blushed a bit.) Eileen had grown into womanhood and made good at it. Eileen was sweet and lovely and trim and cute and shapely and okay.

  “And who followed Miss Deming?”

  Grace Lawrence said: “I did, honey, remember?”

  Homer blushed and fussed with his tie. “Of course,” he beamed. “And then—”

  “I was next,” said Nevin. “And then Nicky English.”

  After Nicky came Bruce Cunningham, followed by Trum. Gavano was the last.

  Homer said: “And we can’t forget Mr. Tucker. I suppose you saw the body, Nat?”

  Tucker was startled. “I did, at that. But it was much later—’round midnight, wasn’t it, Lester?”

  “After midnight,” Lester said.

  “And Eileen?”

  Nat answered for her. “She was asleep. Didn’t know about Shipley until this morning.”

  “I see,” said Homer. “Have you been working very long for Shipley, Eileen?”

  “Not very,” she smiled. “Since Friday morning on this last job.”

  “This wasn’t the first job, then?”

  “Oh, no. I did some of his correspondence once in a while.”

  “You did typing only?”

  “I took shorthand notes and did the typing.”

  Homer turned to Olympe. “But I thought you were Shipley’s secretary, Miss Deming?”

  I caught a wink from Grace Lawrence. But if Homer expected to get a rise out of Olympe, he must have been disappointed.

  “I was his secretary,” she said evenly. “I was not his stenographer.”

  There was a silence, long enough to allow Homer another light for his cigar. Olympe turned toward Grace Lawrence and stared the smile off her lips.

  “Did you have any regular working hours, Eileen?”

  “I had no regular hours. Mr. Shipley called me when he needed me. Most of the time, on this last job, I worked with him in the mornings. But that was unusual, for Mr. Shipley—he usually called me in rather late in the afternoon, or early in the evening, when he didn’t have guests around. But he seemed to be in a hurry to get this last job finished—or rather, started. I worked with him on Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning.”

  “Ever work with him at night?”

  Did she color a bit?

  “I was with Mr. Shipley last night for about half an hour.”

  Cunningham whispered a wisecrack to Grace. It must have been funny, because the redhead covered her wide mouth with a handkerchief. Nat squirmed in his chair and glared at them.

  Homer went on: “What sort of work were you doing on this last job?”

  “It was a book. Mr. Shipley referred to it as his memoirs.”

  I had my eye on the crowd, waiting for a reaction to this bit of news. There was none. The business of Shipley’s book must have been common knowledge to all of them.

  “How much of this book had you done?”

  “About a chapter, I guess. Mr. Shipley explained that there would be about ten typewritten pages to each chapter. I had done about nine pages of his dictation.”

  “That’s pretty slow progress, isn’t it?”

  “That’s all he had dictated,” Eileen explained. “He gave me quite a few pages of handwritten notes on Sunday morning—but I hadn’t begun to type those.”

  “Did you bring the manuscript?”

  Eileen fumbled with her handkerchief.

  “I haven’t got it. It was stolen from the house sometime last night or this morning.”

  Nat said: “We’ve looked high and low for that piece of writin’, Mr. Bull, but there ain’t no use lookin’ anymore.” He glared around the room. “Them notes was thieved out of Eileen’s desk!” Olympe jumped to her feet.

  “You mean you’ve lost that manuscript?” she raged. “You little fool! I told Hugo he was insane when he hired you!”

  Eileen squared off with her chin.

  “You misunderstand me, Miss Deming. I don’t mean that I’ve lost the notes. I mean that they’ve been stolen!”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  Eileen broke down. The shorthand pad slipped from her hands and she ran out of the room. I wanted to smack down the imitation Dietrich for abusing the poor kid. But that would have been stupid. I dropped my sketch pad on the chair and ducked into the hall to catch Eileen.

  I found her in the library, stifling her sobs. She buried her head in my chest and I patted her shoulder gently and tried to act the big brother. But it was tough—Eileen didn’t feel like a sister in my arms.

  “Don’t let that peroxide punk get you,” I soothed.

  She made a funny little face and tilted her head in vexation. “But I can’t understand it. I saw that manuscript just before I went to bed last night. It was on my desk in the living room where I had been working on it. Then this morning, when I was ready to report for work, it was gone—all of it, even the shorthand notes.”

  I tried to think like a detective.

  “Your dad left the house shortly after midnight. That means the house was open until he returned. What time was that?”

  “Dad says he came back shortly before two.”

  “Did he notice that the notes were missing then?”

  Eileen couldn’t say.

  “That makes it simple,” I deduced. “Most likely they were gone by the time he returned. It means that any one of these amateur crooks might have walked through your front door last night, swiped the epic, and walked back to the house as calm as you please.”

  “That must be it,” said Eileen.

  “That is it,” I said. I held her hands. “Got any ideas who it might be, honey?”

  “Any one of them might have done it.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “No, wait,” she added. “I can’t include Grace Lawrence. Grace Lawrence was the only one who didn’t seem interested in the book.”

  I laughed again. “That’s a laugh. Only reason why Gracie wasn’t interested is the fact that Gracie didn’t know that manuscript was worth a few thousand potato chips.”

  Eileen was surprised.

  “Why should it be worth so much money?”

  I chucked her under her chin. “Blackmail, h
oney. Shipley probably knew plenty about that gang in there. But puh-lenty! Can’t you see Gavano swiping the stuff and holding out for dough from a big shot like Trum? That is, if Trum was included in the dirty linen. What about Nicky English? He’d have enough fodder for that cesspool column of his to last a few years. I don’t know about Cunningham, Trum or Nevin—but they all might want the manuscript just in self-defense.”

  I saw the light of understanding creep into her blue eyes.

  “I see,” she murmured. “Little Eileen has been awfully naïve, Hank. The country mouse is getting smarter by the minute, thanks to you.”

  It was an old approach, but her eyes told me that she didn’t mind it too much. I had lots to say and a couple of stray ideas about what I’d do, but before I could drop another gem Nat Tucker popped into the room, bending over Homer as he came.

  Homer said: “Break it up, MacBarrymore; I must have a word with the lass.”

  I gave Eileen her hands.

  “Tell me, Eileen,” Homer began, “do you remember any part of that manuscript?”

  “I only typewrote the part that Mr. Shipley dictated,” she said.

  “Then you hadn’t yet reached the handwritten notes?”

  “You mean did I read them? I didn’t—I couldn’t. You see, it was very difficult to understand his sort of handwriting—queerest writing I ever saw.”

  “Illegible?”

  “The handwriting wasn’t exactly handwriting—it was more like printing. But the words ran into each other. I decided to set aside the handwritten notes for some future date when I could spend time on them.”

  Homer wrote something in his little book. “But you think you can reconstruct the rest of the notes—the part Shipley dictated? All I want is the thought pattern—did Shipley write exclusively about people, for instance?”

  “It was all about people, from the very first words he dictated to me. I’ll never forget the first sentence in the book. It went: ‘This is a dirty book about dirty people!’”

  Homer whistled.

  “Mention any names?”

  “Not very many in the dictated section. The second chapter—when the handwritten notes began—had many names.”

  “Remember any of ’em?”

  She paused. “No, I didn’t get into them much. I remember only Mike Gavano because he was in the first chapter.”

  Homer said: “I want you to do me a favor. I want you to go back home now and try to reconstruct those notes as carefully as you’re able.”

  “When do you want this?”

  “As soon as possible, Eileen. Tonight, if you can manage.”

  “I’ll manage,” she smiled.

  The old man helped her into her coat, and they started for the door. Homer suddenly called Nat back.

  “I’d suggest, Tucker, that you stay at home with your daughter until she finishes that job.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Tell no one about this and keep your eye on Eileen at all times.”

  Nat was puzzled. “What’s up, Bull? What you drivin’ at?”

  “I don’t want her left alone, you understand?”

  Tucker’s mouth fell open a bit. He closed it and said, “Gotcha!”

  I wished that I could have said the same.

  CHAPTER 6

  Over the Hill to Nowhere

  Homer got his idea, suddenly, in the hall.

  “Hank,” he said, “can you ski?”

  “Me?” I snarled. “I don’t know a Christiana from a cheese blintze!”

  “Oh, come,” Homer laughed “It’s not that bad now, is it?”

  “It’s worse, Homer. My mother was frightened by a pair of skis. I’m allergic to snow. I hate cold. And also, I can’t ski well at all.”

  “Would you rather walk?”

  So now it was a choice.

  “I would rather walk in my sleep,” I groaned. “I’m punchy from the lack of shut-eye. I’m also tired, hungry and even thirsty. What I need is a soft bed of feathers and a bottle of stuff.”

  “Purely mental,” cooed Homer. “Look—here’s what you do.”

  And I did it. I let myself out through the kitchen door, well covered with all my sweaters and two of Homer’s. Down in the garage there was a cluster of assorted skiing tools. I squirmed into a pair of brogans almost my size, and fitted them into a pair of the barrel staves.

  I slid down the road cautiously, making good use of the two elongated icepicks. The road bent a bit some two hundred yards from the house, and it was there I spotted ski tracks, pointed into the woods at an oblique angle to the road. I dug into the icy ruts, skidded into a pratt fall, dusted myself off and cursed Homer, Shipley and Nevin in a lump. Then I set my skis in the tracks ahead of me and eased into a slow drift along the snowy slope.

  The prints were deep and clear and easy to follow. What did that mean? I caught myself thinking like a detective again, and it was ducky. Nevin must be a good skier, I figured, because the icepick marks alongside of the tracks appeared every third time I dug in with my poles. It meant that Nevin had moved himself in the slow, easy rhythm of a man who is experienced on the staves. The frequency of his pick pokes led me to deduce that he had been traveling at about twice the speed I made—and I wasn’t doing at all badly.

  Plunging thus into the dribs and drabs of my bad education in mathematics, I began to estimate our comparative speeds. For my own birdlike flight, I reckoned two or three miles an hour. That meant Nevin must have been going about six to ten miles an hour, or maybe more. Would it also mean that he might have been in a hurry? Why?

  Nevin had taken quite a ride for himself. After the interminable hill there was another flat expanse of snow, another hill, steeper than the first, and then the end of the trail. I found myself on a broad cliff, overlooking the valley. Far below, the road wound, a grey pencil smudge against the snow, now brilliant in the moonlight. I squatted on a tree stump and mopped my sweating brow. Wild goose chase.

  I eased out of the staves and examined the small clearing. Nevin had done the same. I plucked three cigarette butts from the snow. He must have been waiting for someone. I lit the light and examined the footprints. He had stamped the clearing almost level. Was there a place where he stepped off into fresh snow? There was. I followed the prints for a few yards. They stopped, and so did I.

  There was another set of footprints at this point. Another cigarette butt, too. I whistled through my teeth—this butt had lipstick marks!

  For a while I deliberated my next move. Which trail to follow? We knew that Nevin had returned. Why not follow the new lead?

  I slipped on my skis and pushed my way through the scrub pine, following the footsteps until they ended at fresh ski marks.

  The mysterious skier couldn’t have been expert. The trail led along the ridge to a wide clearing, then down a mild slope, where you skidded at an angle to the rolling hill, zigging and zagging at an easy pace to a broad plateau, where even an amateur could ski with confidence.

  The trail crossed the plateau and ran a good distance to the North, as though the skier might have been searching for an easier way down. Finally, in a narrow cut between giant trees, the trail dipped downward, coasted toward the road and ended.

  I crossed the road and peered along the edge, but whoever made those tracks must have finished his trip on foot. There were no ski marks in the glistening snow on either side of the road. Perhaps the mysterious skier had walked back to the house, carrying his skis. My deductions made me laugh out loud. The skier might have finished the distance to the house still skiing on the road, and thus have left no marks. The strain of simple deduction was tying my feeble noggin in knots. I shook my head free of thought and slid off the road onto the field, to take the short cut to the garage. I pushed nimbly into the snow in a final burst of speed that left my arms limp.

  My legs came alive, slowly, while I exa
mined the rack of ski equipment. All the skis were dry. The icepicks, too, showed no signs of recent contact with Jack Frost. I puttered around the garage, looking for shoes. There was another pair, obviously a man’s—but it was as dry as my throat. It came to me, suddenly, that ski boots weren’t usually left in garages. Nevin had worn his into the house. Whoever had met him on the hill walked into the house with her boots on. Who? Grace Lawrence? Olympe? Eileen?

  I entered the kitchen through that garage.

  The Mintons were bending over the kitchen table, deep in a pot of coffee and a table full of sandwiches. Lester scowled at me over his left shoulder, but continued to eat. I saw Minnie Minton’s leg crack his shins, and he jerked to his feet, blubbering.

  “Something to eat, sir?” he glugged through a mouthful of Hank and cheese and who knows what.

  “Get the man a chair!” Minnie squealed. “Won’t you ever learn nothing?”

  He pulled over a chair for me and I sat down heavily, with half a sandwich in my craw before my frozen seat hit the chair.

  I gave Minnie my best schoolboy grin. “Minnie, you are the best cook east of the Mississippi. Where’d you learn to make turkey like this?”

  It hit home. Minnie fiddled with her spoon and wriggled coyly. “Now that’s nice. That’s nice,” she chirped. “Ain’t heard talk like that since I worked for Mrs. Archer. You heard of her?”

  I shook my head.

  Lester shifted uneasily on his feet.

  “Sit down, Lester,” I told him. “I’m just folks.”

  He gawked at Minnie.

  “You heard him,” she shrilled. “How many times I have to tell you we ain’t servants in the kitchen? People visit in the kitchen, they got to act natural with servants. No cause to fuss in the kitchen, Mrs. Archer always said. She came in and had tea with me many’s the time, just as natural as you please.” Minnie leaned toward me confidentially. “Lester ain’t never going to learn, Mr.—?”