Death Paints the Picture Read online

  Homer interrupted again.

  “Why did you run to the studio? The shot might have come from any part of the house, mightn’t it?”

  Olympe reddened.

  “I don’t know why. Intuition, I guess.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t another reason?”

  She bit her lip. “There was a reason. I was worried, afraid that Hu—Mr. Shipley might have met somebody and got hurt.”

  “Met who?”

  “Oh, I don’t know!” Her voice rose. “He never told me that he expected anybody. But he acted so—so queerly, I just ran to the studio instinctively, I guess.”

  “Was Mr. Shipley afraid of any of his guests?”

  “If he was, he never told me of his fears.”

  There was a pause, and Olympe rose.

  “One more question, Miss Deming. Are you quite sure that the light was out in the studio when you entered with the Mintons?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Homer found still another question in his little black book. He reached into his jacket and handed Olympe his invitation.

  “Did you type that, Miss Deming?”

  “No. Mr. Shipley sent all the invitations himself.”

  “Good!” said Homer. “And thank you very much, Miss Deming.”

  He bowed her out of the room.

  Swink said: “Funny, her runnin’ right to the studio, now ain’t it?”

  “She’s holding something back,” I suggested.

  Homer prodded me in the ribs. “Keen thinking, MacAndrews. I agree with you.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Swink. “Don’t get it at all.”

  “You will. Where did you find her, Swink?”

  “In the studio.”

  “Alone?”

  Swink nodded.

  Homer started for the door, grabbing my elbow. We avoided the main hall, and left the house through the terrace door. There was a small light burning in the studio!

  Homer doubled his speed, and we circled the house to enter again by way of the kitchen. We slowed to a walk in the studio hall, and stopped in the doorway.

  Olympe Deming was bent over Shipley’s big desk, her hands deep in a drawer!

  “Did you find it, Miss Deming?” asked Homer.

  She straightened, and her hands dropped to her sides awkwardly.

  “Oh!” she whispered. “You startled me.” She pointed to the disarray on the desk top. “I was just looking for some bills—some old bills Mr. Shipley wanted me to pay before he—”

  Homer leaned on the desk. “Why not tell me the truth, Miss Deming?”

  “But I am!” Her voice shook.

  Homer shrugged. “Very well, if you say so.”

  Olympe brushed the papers into a drawer and left us. Homer blew air through his teeth and bounced to the door. He leaned it into place and jerked a chair up to keep it closed.

  “Olympe had the right idea, Hank,” said he, nudging me over to the desk. “Here, help me with this top drawer.”

  Shipley’s desk was as big as a ping pong table. We tugged the massive top drawer out of its socket and lifted it to the desk top. It was a shambles. Loose bills, advertisements, and the hodge-podge of miscellaneous art supplies filled it to overflowing.

  Homer started with the big check book, motioning me to wade into the stuff.

  “Salvage anything that looks interesting.”

  He dug into the check book, thumbing the pages slowly and easily, in the manner of an income tax collector. Three times he paused to insert slips of paper, whistling as he jammed them in. After the fourth time, he paused.

  “Hugo made withdrawals of twenty-five hundred bucks each month for the past four months,” he said. “And marked each withdrawal ‘personal.’”

  “That’s a lot of potatoes for spending money, isn’t it?”

  He made an entry in his note book. “The last withdrawal of that amount was made on last Friday.”

  “Great jumping ginch!” I blatted. “Did Swink find any cash on him after the suicide?”

  “Not twenty-five hundred bucks.”

  He grabbed a sheaf of assorted bills and gave them the thumb, pausing to pluck one from the batch occasionally. When he had finished, Homer tucked the few bills he had salvaged into his pocket and turned to me.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “Only ads.”

  We finished the big drawer and went on to the others. It was the usual mess found in every artist’s studio—a ton of old stationery, envelopes, scrap paper, discarded drawing board, aged sketching research and a few old finished pieces of art work.

  Homer closed the last drawer and rested his fat fanny against the desk top.

  “Whatever it was that Olympe wanted,” he sighed, “isn’t in this desk.” He let his eyes flit over the room. “You’re an artist, Hank. If you wanted to hide something—a slip of paper, perhaps—where would you cache it?”

  “That’s a tough one, Professor Quiz. My little mouse nest isn’t this ornate. Aside from that, I’ve never had anything to hide.”

  I looked around. There was a small drawing table, probably used by Shipley for preliminary layouts. It gave me an idea. I crossed the room and gave it the once-over.

  “Here,” I pointed. “Shipley was human, after all. He’s thumbtacked a raft of junk on his drawing table. What are we looking for?”

  Homer bounced over and surveyed the table. There were dozens of small sketches pinned along the top. Under these, odd-sized strips of paper, smeared with water color and lampblack wash. Homer unpinned the scraps and began to examine their backsides.

  He paused to stare at a small, square sheet.

  “Bingo! We’re halfway home, sonny. Read this!”

  He handed me a sheet of note paper, of the type that women use for invitations to teas, and the brief messages of feminine correspondence. Neatly typed, the message read:

  him now, dear. It will save

  heartache later.

  With all my love,

  Winnie-the-pooh.

  “Halfway?” I said. “This looks like the last sentence of a letter.”

  Homer stared at the board. “Quite true. But if we could find the other half—the other sheet—we’d be finished with our search.”

  “Then we’d better give up, Homer. If he used his half of the letter for testing paints, the other half has long since hit bottom in the wastebasket.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” He held the sheet to the light, squinted at it long and hard, wrote something into his book and then pocketed it. “Watermark,” he explained. “I can trace that paper easily, if I have to.”

  Homer puffed his stogie heavily. From somewhere in the hall a clock bonged six times. The big studio was quiet as the shadows behind the desk.

  He moved silently to the easel, and I looked over his shoulder at the half completed drawing in the frame.

  It was a typical magazine layout for an illustration. In the foreground, dominating the composition, sat the spineless figure of dame, her long torso curving fluidly into nothingness. Her head was bent back so that readers might marvel at her swanlike neck. (All standard Shipley heroines sported the same snaky throats, too long for a normal woman or a normal jugular.) Her eyes were half closed, mysterious, heavy-lidded. Her mouth, full, half opened, inviting, was almost puckered with a waiting kiss for the broad-shouldered clothes horse who leaned over her—his long jaw almost at her chin.

  Our hero, too, was stock Shipley art. Tall, muscular small of face and large of collar, he looked for all the world like a Macy’s window wax gigolo. (Could Nevin have posed for this?) His almost feminine lips curved in an inhuman smile. A lock of Wendell Willkie fluff fell casually over his high and unwrinkled forehead.

  The illustration (had it been finished) would have been do
ne in the hodge-podge technique that was the symbol of Shipley’s talent. He had a knack for atmosphere. He finished his work with a combination of pencil, pen and ink, lampblack and the scrapings of Conté crayon, diligently rubbed into his backgrounds. His characters always moved against these backgrounds—masses of heavy shadow—a perfect device for hiding his unsound drawing.

  For the drawing beneath the fog of Shipley’s “atmosphere” was tight, indeed. He had a few stock poses for his models, and he never varied them. But the editors never seemed to care. Did Shipley? I thought he had reached his peak five years ago. Only recently had I noticed a change—for the better. I wondered then whether Shipley meant to set a new goal for his art. Or was he content to sit on his mountain in Woodstock, satisfied with his glory, and happy with the four figure checks that flew his way with every passing breeze?

  Homer stood away from the easel, in the manner of a connoisseur.

  “What do you think of this daub, Rembrandt?”

  “It stinks!”

  “I’m serious. Is it up to Shipley’s standard?”

  “What standard?”

  Homer eyed me balefully.

  “It stinks,” I repeated. “That’s my way of saying it’s a Shipley original.”

  “You artists are all alike—seething with professional jealousy. Why is that? If I were asked to examine a man’s manuscript, I’m sure my judgment wouldn’t be quite so severe—especially if he were a recognized professional.”

  “How about ‘The Rover Boys’?”

  “Stop quibbling,” said Homer. “What’s wrong with this picture? Why does it stink?”

  “Simple, Homer. A trained eye can see the faults in a bad art job as quickly as you can taste garlic. Shipley violated all the laws. That, in itself, wouldn’t have been so bad. But he covered his bad drawing with theatrical gauze atmosphere. He faked, Homer!”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Homer smiled faintly. “But would you say that this is a recent Shipley? Is it typical of his latest work?”

  I studied the sketch and tried to figure how much more Shipley might have done to the sketch.

  “That’s a tough one, Homer. I’ve never seen a Shipley illustration in the works before. Looks to me as though he had lots more to do on it.” I rubbed the surface of the board. “I don’t think this is a fresh sketch, at that. Could be a job he set up just to impress his weekend guests.”

  “That’s an interesting thought, Hank.”

  He leaned into the easel, almost rubbing his nose on the illustration board. “The paper seems a bit yellowed at the edges. Could that mean anything?”

  I took the drawing off the board and felt the paper. It was the usual medium priced type of sheet. I had used such stuff for many of my own masterpieces. But the edges were a bit yellowed, and bigshot artists don’t usually submit finished work on old stock. Yellow paper would louse up a reproduction.

  When I turned the board over, the brand name told me a story.

  “Look here, Homer. This sheet is marked ‘Bergot Fréres’. ‘Bergot Fréres’ was a French outfit selling this stock to American art stores about four years ago. Maybe before that. Anyhow, they went out of business four years ago.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. I remember that I tried to load up with some of the stuff at the time. It’s good paper. But every art store in the city had sold out.”

  Homer made a note of the brand name.

  “I wonder whether Shipley stocked any more of this stuff in his cupboards. Maybe he bought up a supply of this stock and was still using it.”

  “Here you are, Homer.” I eased out a few huge bundles of Bergot Fréres stock, still encased in their overseas wrappings.

  Homer slit them open. All were yellow with age.

  “The guy must have had a hoarding mania,” I said. “This paper is worthless.”

  “Perhaps,” said Homer thoughtfully.

  He squatted on the pile of paper and drew out his book again. The cigar slid into the corner of his mouth and made room for a rapt smile. He was a fat tailor, grinning over a tricky seam. No, he was a dwarf. He was Dopey, in a quiet moment.

  I grabbed a slice of paper and made a record of my idea.

  CHAPTER 10

  I Lean, Eileen

  On the broad porch, the icy mountain breezes slapped my face and made me breathe again. It was a sharp evening. The snow flurries had long since disappeared over the mountain, leaving the moon master. The row of oaks beyond the road stood out against the silver disc like filigreed trees in a Russell Patterson landscape.

  Sudden shadows moved near the Tucker place. I stepped beyond the edge of the porch for a better squint into the landscape. It was difficult to see that far. Was one shadow moving, or two? The black mass of shadow fell on a wall—the side of Tucker’s house.

  I ran into the studio for Homer. He sat where I had left him, like a fat Buddha. He raised only an eye when I ran in.

  “I’ve just seen visitors down by the Tuckers’ place!” I puffed. “Looked like a couple of ’em.”

  Homer lifted his head slowly.

  “Why shouldn’t you? Any reason why the Tuckers shouldn’t have visitors tonight?”

  “In the snow?” I yapped. “On the North side of the house?”

  “That makes a difference!”

  He lifted his fanny off the bundles. We skipped down the hall for our coats.

  On the porch, Homer pulled me to a standstill, I followed his finger. There was a figure approaching from the direction of the woods to the southeast.

  “Gavano!” Homer stepped spryly off the porch to cut him off.

  Gavano seemed headed in the direction of the garage. We followed the footpath around the side of the house and waited for him to reach the driveway.

  When he reached the driveway and stomped his feet on the hard snow, we stepped out.

  “Out picking acorns, Mike?”

  Gavano wheeled to face us, startled. I saw his right hand snap into his coat pocket, in a gangster gun grope.

  The moon showed us his gilt smile. He answered Homer mockingly, both hands rammed into his coat, shoulders hunched. “Nah. I been out counting the snowflakes, Bull.”

  Homer stepped forward under Gavano’s nose.

  “Mike, I’m going to give you some advice.”

  Gavano took a step toward the house, but Homer grabbed his elbow gently but firmly. The big man stopped, shaking off Homer’s hand with a snarl.

  Homer said: “I’d advise you to keep away from the Tuckers’ house, Mike.”

  Gavano threw his head back and bellowed a horse laugh at the moon. It was an idiot’s laugh, long and loud and rasping. The hills picked it up when Mike had finished, and the muffled echo goose-pimpled my shanks.

  ‘That all you got to worry about, Bull?”

  “I’m not worrying, Gavano.”

  There was a touch of madness in their silhouettes. I moved in close, waiting for a fight that never came.

  The rat eyes narrowed. “Now Mike Gavano’s giving you advice, Bull. Forget about me, see?”

  He moved away up the driveway, hunched into his coat, an evil figure among the shadows.

  Homer stared after him, rolling his stogie on his lip and still smiling. Then he turned and poked me in the ribs. “Could it have been Gavano you saw a while ago?”

  “I don’t see how. I don’t think he had time to make such a wide detour, if he were returning from Tuckers’ place.”

  “Simple enough to find out.”

  And it was. Gavano had left two sets of footprints in the snow—the only footprints visible on our side of the clearing. I waded in with Homer.

  The footsteps led into the woods bordering the small clearing and then turned sharp right along the stone wall. Homer paused to look back at the house. He pointed to the Tucker plac
e, now half hidden beyond the hill.

  “I think it’s obvious why Gavano followed this wall to the top of the hill.”

  “What in hell for?”

  “To watch, Hank,” he led me on. “Mike went over this way to get an unobstructed view of the area around Nat’s backyard.”

  We reached the end of the stone wall. Homer was right. The footprints ended at the wall and doubled back the way we had come.

  “But what I don’t understand, Homer—”

  There was a sudden jerk, and I found myself behind a tree, held flat against the trunk by Homer’s fat right arm. Laughter rose in my throat, for some unaccountable reason. But I swallowed my hysterics when he pointed. The silhouette of a man crunched through the snow at a half-run, in a beeline toward the garage.

  “Want me to follow him?” I gulped.

  Homer’s grip tightened on my arm, while the figure disappeared over the hillock of snow. I turned to Homer impatiently—he was peering down the hill in the direction of Nat Tucker’s place.

  He faced me finally, calm as you please.

  “Now, Hank, do exactly as I say. Hop back to the house as fast as you can—but not too fast. I don’t want you to catch our mysterious snowbird. I don’t want you to leap on him and beat him into a bloody pulp. I don’t even want him to know you’re following. Go to the garage and examine the place for footprints. When you’ve found them, hoof it back to Tucker’s. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

  I wanted to ask him a few whys, but he had already stepped off down the hill. He turned his head and waved me away with a fat hand.

  It was a good fifty yard dash from the wall to the driveway, and the spread eagle skid on my elbows added another ten to the distance. Plus time out for dusting the ice out of my nose. When I struggled to my feet, a figure had stepped from the shadows. It was Stanley Nevin.

  “That was a nasty fall, MacAndrew.”

  Was it the moonlight that made him zombie-colored? I made a mental note of the trick way the light promoted his high cheek bones.

  “It’s a great night for tripping and falling,” I said, by way of making chit-chat. “There must be a half inch layer of ice on the driveway.”

  “Much easier getting around on skis.” His eyes were fixed on a point somewhere far beyond my head, but only for a second. “Ever try night skiing?”