Death Paints the Picture Page 8

  I laughed. “I can’t even ski during the day, Nevin—I’d be the spirit of the pratt fall at night.”

  There was a long pause.

  Nevin said: “It’s getting too cold for comfort out here. Coming in?”

  “Not yet. Think I’ll practice falling; then maybe I won’t lose so much elbow next time.”

  He moved away toward the garage, while I lit a cigarette and stared at the stars. So it was Nevin we’d seen running through the snow. I wondered what he had been doing over at Nat’s house. Why should he visit the Tuckers at this hour? Suddenly I remembered the cigarette butt and the ski trails. Eileen! Did it mean that he and Eileen had met up on the hill in the afternoon? Was this just another appointment with her? Hell—there was a moon and stars. I shivered.

  My job was done. I edged slowly down the driveway, lost in dreary speculation.

  In Nat’s living room Homer held a few sheets of typewritten stuff and leaned against the fireplace, turning a glass of ale in his hand. He greeted me before I could open my mouth.

  “Well, Hank—glad you came down, finally. I looked all over for you before I left the house.”

  There was ample time for me to catch his flickering wink.

  “Changed my mind.” I forced a smile. “Saw the light and figured I’d drop in.”

  Eileen eyed me brightly from the kitchen door. “I’m so glad you came, Hank. Would you like beer or ale? Or perhaps some whiskey?”

  “I’m not much of a drinking man, Eileen. Maybe you’d better bring me all three.”

  Eileen’s girlish laughter made me feel good, in spite of Stanley Nevin. But why had she changed so suddenly? Her eyes were dulled with some emotion I couldn’t understand. Was she afraid? No—it was worry, I decided. Eileen seemed worried. Why? I missed the apples in her cheeks, the usual brightness in her blue eyes. Hers was a magazine cover face—a face for the American Magazine, photographed by Bruehl, with a flower in her black hair and cobalt blue satin laid against her skin.

  Nat came in, rubbing his eyes.

  “Well, this is a surprise, fellers. Glad to see you.”

  Homer crossed the room to pump Nat’s hand.

  “Been napping, Nat?”

  “Just about to,” he said, squinting from Homer to me. “Cold weather makes a man sleepy, now don’t it?”

  Eileen must have reached the kitchen by way of the make-up kit, for her face had new color when she brought in the tray. Or was she only surprised to see her father in the room?

  Homer thumbed the notes.

  “This synopsis is very interesting, Eileen. It shows a remarkable memory for detail. Too bad you couldn’t get to read the rest of Shipley’s masterpiece—I mean the part he wrote in longhand.”

  Eileen blushed prettily.

  “It was really awfully easy. Aside from Mr. Shipley’s disappointment in his friends, he mentioned only Mike Gavano. It’s hard to forget a character like Mike—even in one chapter of a book.”

  “You’re being modest, Eileen. You’ve interpreted the mood of Shipley’s writing for me—and you’ve done it very well.”

  Tucker beamed at his daughter. “Eileen’s got talent, all right. Gets it from her maw—Mrs. Tucker was a keen one for business.” He winked. “Long before ladies were supposed to have brains.”

  Nat’s eyes shifted from Eileen to Homer as he talked. He had that habit—a half dozen quick eye-rolls to each sentence. They were quick, birdlike glances, but accompanied by no movement of the head.

  Long ago there was a movie actor, character actor, who had used that optical gesture on the screen. Perhaps that was why I watched Nat with sudden interest.

  “Eileen’s got talent,” said Nat again, winking an eye.

  “Nonsense, father. I’ve done nothing remarkable.”

  Tucker reddened to the ears. “Indeed you have, girl!” He turned to Homer. “You see, Bull, the girl’s modest—downright humble, I right say!”

  There was an embarrassing silence.

  “Downright humble!” Nat mumbled. “Trouble is this place—this consarned job of mine.”

  “Oh, Dad, please!”

  “’Tain’t your fault, at that, Eileen. A girl gets to feelin’ meek and simple, livin’ like we do—like servants.”

  A flicker of annoyance clouded Eileen’s eyes.

  Homer said: “Nonsense, Nat. There’s nothing wrong with being a caretaker. Nothing at all.”

  “Of course not,” I echoed. “Taking care of a place like this is a responsible job.”

  “Pah,” snapped Nat bitterly. “It’s being a servant! Never thought I’d feel like a common servant. Never thought I’d have to raise my girl this way.”

  Eileen went to him and lifted his head. “You know I’m perfectly happy, Dad.”

  He looked at her mournfully. “You’re a brave girl, Eileen.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I’m perfectly happy—do you understand? Happy with our home and your job and—everything. Oh, if you’d only believe me, Dad. Why, we haven’t a worry in the world, have we?”

  Tucker stared at his pipe. It seemed odd for a man with so home spun a pan to harbor such ideas. You walk through a village full of Nat Tuckers—farmers, storekeepers, real estate agents, hotel keepers. You’ve seen his face, thousands of times. It is a usual face, a face to forget, an upstate face no different from all the others. You say: “Tucker? An honest farmer, brought up in the hills. Inherited his father’s farm, worries about nothing more serious than the mortgage.” There are a million Tuckers in every state in the union. You see him over and over again. In the fields. Behind a counter. Tucker is always a bit player in a simple scene, unimportant and vague.

  I wondered what lay behind this Tucker’s eyes.

  He shook his head and smiled weakly at his daughter. “I’m sorry, Eileen.”

  She brought him a glass of ale, and he sipped it dreamily.

  Homer said: “Do you mind a few more questions, Eileen?”

  “Fire away,” she said brightly.

  “When you went up to your work at the house, did you talk to anybody much, other than Shipley?”

  “I guess I talked to all of them, at one time or another.”

  “Did you meet Miss Deming before you went up on Friday?”

  “Only on the hill, once or twice, when I’d go out to ski.”

  “Talk to her much?”

  Eileen nodded. “Mr. Shipley introduced us. She was very nice to me—at first.”

  “At first?”

  Eileen paused to wrinkle her nose.

  “I mean before I started to work for Mr. Shipley.”

  “You mean that she was unpleasant?”

  “Not exactly. Outwardly, she seemed as pleasant as usual. But I felt ill at ease, in spite of her honeyed words. It seemed to me that Miss Deming didn’t want me up at the house. She questioned me interminably about my experience. She warned me about Mr. Shipley’s ‘eccentricities,’ and cautioned me against mentioning my job to any of the guests. It seemed to me that she was worried about something.”

  “The book?”

  “Perhaps. She did suggest, once, that I leave all of my finished typing with her.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Homer. “Did you do as she suggested?”

  “I couldn’t, and I had to tell her the reason. You see, Mr. Shipley told me to show the notes to nobody—under any circumstances. I mentioned Miss Deming’s instructions, and I remember that he frowned and said: ‘Include Miss B out!’” Eileen blushed.

  “That was the first and last time Mr. Shipley used profanity in my presence. He must have seen that I didn’t like that sort of talk, for he apologized gracefully.”

  “What did Miss Deming say when you told her about Shipley’s orders?”

  Eileen smiled. “There was a scene, of course, and from t
hat day on her dislike for me was quite apparent.”

  “What about Shipley?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When you worked with him, did he seem worried?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Most of my impressions of him are based on nothing more than his manner as he dictated to me. He seemed in a great hurry to get started with that book, and sometimes became angry with himself because of his inexperience with that sort of thing.”

  “Did Miss Deming ever come into the studio while he was dictating?”

  “She came in on Friday morning. Of course, he stopped dictating immediately. She wanted to talk to him about the weekend guests. It seemed that he hadn’t told her how many were coming up and she didn’t know how to instruct the cook. Mr. Shipley’s manner changed noticeably when she asked him about the weekend party. He became irritable, impatient and—well, nervous while they talked about the party.”

  “Nervous?”

  Eileen groped for the right word. “If not nervous, at least concerned, or worried, perhaps. He wondered whether all the guests would come, and they mentioned a few of the people expected.”

  Homer leaned forward. “Remember any of that?”

  “I’m sorry that I don’t. But, you see, all these names were strange to me. And then again, Miss Deming made me fidgety whenever I saw her. It wasn’t easy for me when she was around.”

  “I understand,” said Homer.

  “Me, too,” I added. “That dame gives me the screaming meemies!”

  “Shipley didn’t mention my name, did he?” Homer asked.

  “He might have,” she said. “I honestly can’t remember.”

  Homer flipped another page in his little black book.

  “Can you tell me who arrived first, Eileen?”

  “Cunningham and Trum. They arrived on Friday afternoon, and Miss Deming brought them into the studio while I was there. Mr. Shipley dismissed me as soon as they walked in.”

  “Did you see them much after that? I mean—to talk?”

  “Mr. Cunningham spoke to me at great length later in the day. He was out skiing and stopped to chat on the porch. He seemed interested in my work.”

  “You mean the book, of course?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m afraid that Mr. Cunningham was trying to pump me.” Eileen laughed. “Isn’t that what you detectives call it?”

  “That’s what it sounds like,” I chirped, feeling like Nero Wolfe.

  “Can you remember a few of his questions?”

  “I remember one, very clearly. He asked: ‘Is it a funny book?’ Then he explained that Mr. Shipley was a very funny fellow at times. Of course, I told him nothing.”

  “Did he try again?”

  “Oh, yes, several times.”

  Homer was taking his notes in shorthand again.

  “How about Trum?”

  “I think Mr. Trum is cute. He reminds me of Guy Kibbee—sort of fat and harmless. He was always very pleasant to me.”

  “Was he interested in the book, too?”

  “Casually. He would ask things like, ‘How’s the epic coming, Eileen?’ or ‘Is your face red from all the scandal?’ Perhaps he was looking for information, too. But he really never had a chance to speak to me alone, you see. Miss Lawrence was usually with him—or Cunningham.”

  Homer’s manner didn’t change at the mention of Grace.

  “Did Miss Lawrence arrive with Cunningham and Trum?”

  “No. I remember her big yellow roadster came up the driveway about six o’clock on Friday evening. I was in the kitchen preparing dinner when she drove through.”

  “Have any contact with the lady?”

  “I like Grace. It’s a funny thing about her—in many ways she’s like Miss Deming. I mean that she seems hardboiled. She’s much nicer than Miss Deming, though. Warmer.”

  Homer enjoyed the backhanded praise of his ex-wife.

  “I suppose she, too, was interested in the book?”

  “Grace?” Eileen asked herself. “I don’t think so. As a matter of fact, I’d say that she was the only guest completely disinterested in the book. The others made a point of trying to wheedle information out of me.”

  “Let’s see,” said Homer. “We have only Nicky English, Gavano and Nevin left to talk about. I haven’t any doubt but that Nicky made a point of annoying you. Am I right?”

  “Indeed you are. Nicky English is the sort of man who makes an impression right away—probably because of the way he dresses. But my memory of Nicky would be pretty vivid anyhow. You see, he came into the studio as soon as he arrived, even before he had taken off his overcoat.”

  “That was on Friday evening then?”

  “At about eighty-thirty. I should say he ran into the studio. He always seemed to be running, somehow. Anyway, when he met Mr. Shipley in the studio, I thought him rather rude. I thought there would be a scene for a minute—he was that rude. But Mr. Shipley seemed to enjoy the way Nicky carried on. Nicky said something like: ‘What’s the gag, Shipley? Why the invite?’ But that was all I heard. Mr. Shipley asked me to leave after that.”

  “Eileen,” said Homer, “you’re doing swell. What else did you see of Nicky English?”

  “Plenty. Of all the people in the house, Nicky was the most brazen about the book. He cornered me several times and he wasn’t even subtle.”

  “That’s a laugh,” I said. “He’s a master of innuendo in the public press.”

  “He may write that way,” she said evenly. “But it seemed to me that he was really trying to talk business whenever he ran into me. I almost expected him to make me an offer for my shorthand notes on Friday night.”

  “But he never did, actually?”

  “No—unless I wasn’t bright enough to understand him.”

  Eileen was modest. How could a girl be so pretty and that smart? You read about people like Eileen in books, but do you meet them in gin mills? I made a resolution.

  “We can forego Gavano and Nevin, for the present,” said Homer. He flipped shut his little black book.

  The interview was over.

  “Look at Dad,” whispered Eileen. “We’ve put him to sleep.”

  And so we had. Nat Tucker slumped forward in his rocker, whistling gently through his grey mustache. Homer nudged my middle, and we edged to the door.

  “Good night,” she cooed. And then: “Good night, Hank.” She gave me her nicest smile, as though she might stay.

  “Good night,” I murmured. “See you later.”

  When I looked back, she was at the window, waving me another goodbye.

  CHAPTER 11

  I’m Dizzy, Homer

  The moon had gone to bed in a blanket of cirrostratus, but the night still glowed with an eerie light. It was grey and cold and quiet. Homer was thinking overtime, and I—my mind was full of Eileen and Nevin and a hundred unanswered questions.

  “Well, sonny,” Homer began finally, “did you follow our mystery man to his lair?”

  “It was easy,” I explained. “The mystery man was Nevin.”

  Homer stopped walking, he was that stunned.

  “Impossible!”

  I described the incident at the garage.

  “I see,” Homer mumbled. “Then you didn’t examine the garage for footprints?”

  “What for? When I saw Nevin I put two and two together.”

  “And got zero! How can you be sure that Nevin was our man?”

  That stopped me. I couldn’t be sure.

  “Did you notice his trousers?” Homer asked. “The snow is over six inches deep—it would have left his pants white at the cuffs.”

  I shook my head woefully.

  “No matter.”

  We started through the snow in the direction of the hillock where Mr. Mystery had begun his fif
ty-yard sprint. When we reached the trail of footsteps, Homer paused to squint back at the Tuckers’ house.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “Our man came from Nat Tucker’s backyard.”

  “I don’t get it, Homer. What would Nevin want back there?”

  “Not so fast. Placing Nevin in Nat’s back yard is your idea.”

  “You don’t think it was, Nevin?”

  “I know it wasn’t Nevin!” Homer beamed up at me.

  I groaned. “All right. MacAndrew is a moron. Who was it?”

  “MacAndrew is no such animal,” he said. “MacAndrew is only an artist who hasn’t learned to use his eyes.”

  We crunched through the snow. I was floored. I could remember only a running silhouette, a hill, a vague background of moonlit sky. I tried to light up the dark corners in my brain. But the switch was broken. I couldn’t remember.

  “Notice anything peculiar about our scurrying silhouette?”

  He was putting it very plainly. I hung my head and fought for an idea.

  “Wasn’t he short?”

  Somewhere in the dark depths of my head a small light went on. Fifteen volts, no more, no less.

  “I’d say he was,” I said.

  “How many shorties in our cosy house party up yonder?”

  That was easy. “Two.”

  “Exactly. Trum and Nicky English.”

  An additional thirty watts clicked on.

  “Nat Tucker’s short, too,” I added.

  “We can forget Nat. But how does Trum dress, Hank?”

  “Like a cigarette tycoon, I guess.”

  “From here on in, it’s a breeze,” laughed Homer. “Trum is short and fat. Trum couldn’t make that fifty yards in anything under two minutes—through snow. Our man made it in almost nothing flat. He lifted his legs high. He was light on his feet. He wore a flared coat—an Esquire model, probably. Our prowler then—”

  “Nicky English!” I chirped.

  “Of course.”

  “But what’s the gag? Why was Nicky coming from Nat’s?”

  We reached the driveway. Homer stomped the snow off his shoes and flicked at his trousers.