Death Paints the Picture Page 5

  “MacAndrew.”

  “MacAndrew? Irish, is it?” Minnie clucked delightedly. “I’m part Irish. One half, I am.” She paused to remember what she had been saying. “I was saying Lester ain’t never going to learn. It’s been four years I’m learning him things. Four years I’m learning him butlering, but it’s like the saying goes about learning an old dog new tricks. I’m giving up. The man was never cut to butler. Chauffeuring, now, that’s Lester’s line.” She threw him a look of scorn. “You hear me, Lester? Sit down!”

  Lester squatted gingerly.

  “Where’d you chauffeur in Brooklyn, Lester?”

  “Columbia Heights,” he muttered.

  “Swank. Who was the lucky boss?”

  There was a pause while Lester slurped coffee.

  “Fellow with a funny name,” said Minnie. “Wasn’t it Window, Lester? Minnow? Belinda?”

  I caught a quick flash of fury in Lester’s pig eyes. But Minnie didn’t.

  “Ginder, was it?” She was losing her patience.

  “Can’t remember,” he said.

  Minnie plucked the name off the ceiling.

  “Pindo!” she shrilled. “It was Pindo, wasn’t it?”

  Pindo! Could it be the Pindo I thought it was? No wonder Lester didn’t want to remember. There was only one important Pindo in Brooklyn.

  “Had dozens of cars,” Minnie went on. “Lester courted me in style, he did. Every time we went out it was a ride for Minnie in a different car. Once in an Eyetalian one even—oh, what a grand thing it was, that Eyetalian car.”

  “Isotta?” I asked. Lester. “Your boss must have been in the chips.”

  “He was pretty rich.”

  “Made his dough in the slot-machine racket, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know nuthin’ about where he made his dough,” Lester snapped. “I drove for the family. Mostly his wife and daughter.”

  “Tina?”

  “He only had one daughter.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Underworld society, eh, Lester?”

  Lester didn’t answer. Minnie flitted to the stove with the empty percolator.

  “You’ll be wanting another cup, fresh,” she said. “Git up, Lester! Mr. MacAndrew might be wanting a drink of brandy, too, him just being out in the cold. You know where the brandy is, you big fool! Get your legs movin’ after it!”

  Lester got up slowly. He didn’t want to move.

  “Make it Scotch,” I told him.

  He grunted and left.

  “Not that I need the Scotch,” I winked. “After your elegant coffee. Your coffee will do me fine, any time, Minnie.”

  “Will it now, sir?” Minnie’s grin wrinkled her lean jaw. “That’s what I always say. I always say there ain’t nothin’ better than a good coffee, after the cold. Not that Scotch is wrong, sir. Not that Scotch is wrong at all. But you can’t beat coffee, now can you?” She sighed over the sink. “Mr. Shipley, he was a great one for my coffee, too.”

  “He built a fine ski trail out there,” I said. “Did his guests use it much?”

  “Indeed they did,” she said. “All of ’em favored the sport, though I can’t see why. Mostly it’s fallin’, from the look of it.”

  “With me it is,” I laughed. “But Nevin, now, he’s a fancy skier. I saw him come down the hill a while ago. He’s an expert. Came down with a girl—just like two birds, they were. I wonder who the girl was?”

  “Ah, that must have been Eileen,” she said. “Ain’t she pretty?”

  I hid my amazement in another sandwich. “Nope. Didn’t look like Eileen to me. Don’t the other ladies ski?”

  “Indeed they do,” Minnie sniffed. “But not like Eileen, though they’re fair, both of ’em.”

  “Looked more like Miss Lawrence to me,” I said. “Was she out there this afternoon?”

  “I couldn’t say, me not bein’ in here most of the time.”

  Lester came in with the drinks.

  “Did you notice?” she snapped. “You see, I was up in my room nappin’, till half an hour ago. Lester would know. Wouldn’t you know, Lester? Speak up!”

  “Didn’t see nobody but Mr. Nevin.”

  “You were in the kitchen when he came in?” I asked.

  “In the garage, cleanin’ skis. I cleaned his stuff off.”

  “Find any of the other skis wet?”

  “They was all wet.”

  “Phuh!” scoffed Minnie. “How would you know? You’re full of brandy, I suppose, from the cellar.”

  Lester growled. “That don’t matter. Them skis was wet, I tell ya.”

  “Keep your shirt on,” I said, and gulped the dregs of my coffee. I thanked Minnie for her hospitality and walked into the hall. My watch told me four-fifteen. I had been gone only an hour. There was the buzz of talk from the living room. I crept softly through the dining room and up the stairs.

  Grace’s room was easy to spot. She had brought plenty of luggage, brightly banded in the latest manner and festooned with gilt monograms, too large to miss.

  I blew my nose, lit a cigarette, and dropped to my knees for a quick survey under the bed. No boots.

  Then the door clicked open.

  “Lose your collar button, jerk?”

  I took a wild chance.

  It was Grace.

  “Look,” I said, making meek with my eyes, “I only wanted to find out if you were skiing this afternoon. I was looking for your ski boots.”

  She raised a penciled eyebrow.

  “Don’t hand me that!”

  “On the level,” I said.

  “Why couldn’t you ask me? Why couldn’t Homer ask me?”

  “Homer doesn’t know a thing about this,” I pleaded.

  She allowed me a thin quizzical smile. “I don’t know why I should believe you, MacAndrew, but I do.”

  “And the answer?”

  “The answer is no,” she said. “Any more questions?”

  I wanted to ask her for a gander at her ski boots. Why should she tell me the truth?

  Grace read my mind. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “You’re a bad liar, MacAndrew.” She bounced into the bathroom and came back with her ski boots. They were dry.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Skip it,” she laughed. “And give Homer my love.”

  I backed into the hall and bumped my fanny on somebody’s bay window. It was Trum, steaming.

  “What’s this?” he growled, glaring at me.

  I felt like the sharp end of a bedroom triangle.

  “Will those sketches be enough?” Grace cooed.

  “Plenty,” I managed.

  “What sketches?” grumbled Trum.

  “Mr. MacAndrews is an artist, sugar. He came up to make a few preliminary sketches for a portrait.”

  “Yeah.” I patted my pocket. “These’ll be plenty, till I get back to town.”

  Grace grabbed Trum’s arm and pinched his fleshy jowls. “Is Duggy jealous? After all, Mr. MacAndrew only does heads.”

  Trum took the oil and harrumphed. “Fine idea. Have to let you do my head, too, sometime.”

  “It would be a pleasure.” I bowed, and left them to each other.

  In the hall, Olympe Deming turned the corner, on the way to her room. My research was over.

  CHAPTER 7

  Nicky Speaks Out

  Homer was in the living room with Nicky English, Stanley Nevin, Cunningham and Gavano. Swink remained in the doorway, squinting into the room over his pipe.

  Cunningham was saying: “I’ve been up here many, many times, Bull. Shipley and I were old friends.”

  “But this was a business trip?”

  “Indirectly, yes,” said Cunningham. “I brought Mr. Trum up
on business. As you know, Trum controls International Tobacco, and has a great deal to say about how most of his brands are advertised. I had sold Trum the idea of having Shipley do a series of drawings for some advertisements.”

  “Then Shipley knew Trum was coming?”

  “Oh, yes. Hugo has entertained Trum before.”

  “How about Miss Lawrence?”

  Cunningham ran his fingers through his mop of varnished hair. “What do you mean?”

  “Was she invited, too?”

  “Yes. She—ah—came up as Trum’s guest.”

  “Interesting,” murmured Homer. “And the business deal—how did it go?”

  Cunningham smiled. “It didn’t. Shipley absolutely refused to do the type of drawing Trum wanted. You see, we wanted girl stuff—something that might outdo the Pretty Girl. Hugo didn’t care for the idea—not under his signature, at least.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He claimed that it would cheapen his reputation. He was quite firm about it.”

  “You can go now, if you like, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “I’d rather stay.”

  Homer turned to Gavano. “You’re next, Mike. How’d you happen to be up here this weekend?”

  Gavano showed his gold teeth. “Hugo and me, we was old chums.”

  “He sent you an invitation?”

  “I don’t need no invitations. I told you Hugo and me was chums, see?”

  Homer smiled. “We’re not getting anywhere, Gavano. How long have you known Shipley?”

  “I can’t remember. A long time. Ever since he’s been makin’ moola. Hugo put me on for a bodyguard, after he got up in the big time. I been with him maybe five years, off and on.”

  “He’s lying,” Nicky snapped. “I didn’t see him up here the last time I was here.”

  “Keep your drawers on, punk,” sneered Gavano. “Did I say I stayed here all the time?” He lowered his eyes in the manner of a Steig pug. “I come up when Hugo calls me, see? This week he calls me up, so I come.”

  “Did Shipley tell you why he wanted you? Was he afraid of anybody?”

  “Hugo never says much. I just sit around and keep my eyes open.”

  Nicky laughed lightly.

  “How much did Shipley pay you?” Homer asked.

  “He doesn’t pay me any regular wages. We are old chums, see? What Hugo gives me, I take.”

  “Did you ever meet any of these guests before, Mike?”

  Gavano’s rat eyes roved the room. “I never mingles with Hugo’s guests when I come up.” He pointed to Nicky. “But you ask me if I ever meet any of these guys before, hah? Yeah—I meet this punk English. Once, but not up here, see?”

  “He’s talking about Brooklyn now,” Nicky leered. “He’s trying to tell you he met me once three years ago, when I blew the lid off his stinking protection racket. Isn’t that right, Gavano?”

  Gavano’s eyes were pinpoints of hate. “That’s right, you half-pint heel! Mike Gavano ain’t forgot about that yet, see?”

  “Better button your mouth, Mike,” Nicky said coolly. “Some Boy Scouts in Brooklyn are sending me letters about other activities.”

  “Someday you’re gonna wake up in a barrel of cement, Nicky!” Gavano’s big fists were white in his lap. “You through with me, Bull?”

  Homer let him go, and Nevin left a minute later.

  Nicky said: “Don’t ask me, Bull—I’ll tell you. I was up here once before, in 1936—in the fall. I never again visited Hugo Shipley. Why? Because I hated his guts! But you probably read all about it.”

  “Let’s see,” mused Homer. “Wasn’t that the time of the Hugo Shipley cowboy act? I seem to recall something about a well-known illustrator chasing a well-known columnist down a well-known street in New York—with a gun.”

  “Two guns,” corrected Cunningham. “That incident took place just one week after Nicky’s visit, didn’t it, Nicky?”

  Nicky’s face went white.

  “You ought to know!”

  Cunningham smiled archly. “How can I forget?”

  I couldn’t forget, either, now that I remembered. Every newspaper in New York, even the Times, had run that story. But it was the tabloids that played it for all it was worth. Abner Gillray, the rusty-headed cameraman from the Globe, happened to be staggering out of a bar when the chase began. Abner caught every phase of it, in fine, sharp blacks and whites, including the curling smoke from one of Shipley’s guns. ARTIST CHASES ENGLISH DOWN FIFTH AVENUE, screamed the headlines. PEEPING TOM CHASED BY FAMOUS ILLUSTRATOR! TWO-GUN SHIPLEY ALMOST GETS HIS MAN!

  The details remained indelible in my memory, thanks to the nimble pen of Shelley Stark, fiction man, who sold the incident (with a story built around it) to the waiting cameras in Hollywood.

  At that famous party, Nicky English, squatting at Shipley’s studio door, spotted the red silk of someone else’s wife in Hugo’s arms. And printed it!

  Hugo, full of righteous wrath at this insult to one of his cash customers, brooded over a gallon of liquor until he felt ripe enough for two guns He chased Nicky from Park Avenue in the Fifties to a taxicab on the corner of Broadway and Forty-Eighth Street—a half mile sprint, no matter how you figure it.

  The newspapers played the story for laughs, but smart talk had it that Shipley would have really plugged English that night, if he had caught him. He was tanked to the ears arid ready for a showdown with Nicky. Shipley didn’t enjoy the notoriety, even though the name of the lady was never really printed. The pithy paragraph had only said something like: “What ad exec’s pretty wife snuggled with what illustrator on a weekend party in W—?”

  What advertising executives were up in Woodstock on that memorable weekend? Hoagy Bellows was one. But Hoagy’s wife was an underslung bag, married in the lean days. Shipley wouldn’t ever make passes at Helen Bellows.

  Cunningham was there, too. Was Cunningham sure of his wife? Cunningham was an ex-footballer from Yale, six foot something or other and needing no gun to squash Nicky English. Cunningham sat tight and let the scandal blow itself out. He wasn’t mad at all. Was it because he knew his wife? Mimi Cunningham, nee Mimi Lavere (third from the left in the Gaieties chorus) was short and sweet and rounded in the best places. It must have been Mimi. It probably was, because Bruce Cunningham divorced her a year later. Was Mimi the answer? Nobody knew.

  Of course, there were other suspects—wild stories told in the gin mills about the dame he really was bundling that night. The mystery died deep in the ads and I never knew the last word. I’m strictly a headline reader, except for “True Stories of Crime,” “Terry and the Pirates,” and an item called “Crosstown.”

  “Gentlemen,” soothed Homer, “you’re moving too fast for poor little me. What I don’t understand is why Hugo Shipley waited for four years before inviting his favorite columnist again.”

  “Who said he was invited?” Cunningham cracked.

  Nicky laughed out loud. “You advertising apes think everybody lies as much as you do. Suppose I tell you I have an invitation?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you!”

  Nicky let it pass and turned to Homer. “Is there any law that says I must answer questions while this crumb heckles me?”

  Homer said: “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, Cunningham.”

  Cunningham rose. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

  Nicky waited until he left the room.

  “I wasn’t fooling, Bull,” he said. “I came here by invitation, of course. I have the invitation upstairs, whenever you care to see it.”

  “It can wait,” said Homer. “I believe you. Tell me, Nicky, did you ever bother to ask Shipley why you were invited? You and he don’t make for a congenial weekend.”

  “I bothered,” snapped English. “You’re damn well right, I bothered. The minute I met him in the studio I asked him
. It was a story,” he said.”

  “What sort of a story?”

  “Shipley wouldn’t say any more, except that I should take a look around—and enjoy myself. I suppose he meant that I should watch his guests for a story. I’m not sure.”

  “That was all?”

  Nicky thought a bit.

  “No, that wasn’t all. He told me he would have something hot for me by Tuesday night!”

  There was a silence. Tonight was Monday. Death had closed Hugo’s mouth.

  Homer relit his cigar.

  “I wonder whether he might have meant that you would find a story among his guests.”

  Nicky shook his head almost violently.

  “That’s nonsense! I’ve printed loads of stuff on most of these people. I mean Cunningham, Trum, Gavano, and even Grace Lawrence. The possibility of more dirt about them wouldn’t intrigue me—and Shipley knew it.”

  “Oh, come now,” beamed Homer, “your column isn’t run that way, Nicky. Why try to kid me? Anything fresh about these people would be printable, wouldn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say that it wouldn’t be printable! I said that I don’t think Shipley would have called me up here for that type of story!”

  “Are you trying to say that his story was beyond gossip—that it was real news?”

  “Exactly!’

  “Do you mean that Shipley knew that he would commit suicide?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And the suicide was to be your story?”

  “That’s screwy!” Nick said. “But if he didn’t commit suicide it might have been because somebody didn’t want him to spill his little yarn for publication!”

  “Nobody ever suggested before this that Shipley didn’t commit suicide, Nicky. What makes you think he didn’t?”

  Nicky brayed. “Don’t make me laugh, Bull! What have you been doing all afternoon—playing Professor Quiz?”

  Homer eyed him soberly.

  “I’ve been conducting an examination before the inquest.”

  “Then you think Shipley was a suicide?”

  “I haven’t reached any conclusion, Nicky. Have you?”

  Nicky leaned forward.

  “Can’t I play detective, too, Bull? Do I look like a sucker? Maybe I’ve got an angle on this business that’s escaped the syndicate Sherlock, eh?”