Laura. Vera CasparyЧитать онлайн книгу.
and I ordered on the phone. This here’s the brand we use.” She swung the doors wider and revealed, among the neatly arranged bottles, four unopened fifths of J and D Blue Grass Bourbon, the brand which I had taught her to buy.
Such unexpected evidence, throwing unmistakable light on the last moments of the murdered, should have gladdened the detective heart. Contrarily, Mark found himself loath to accept the facts. This was not because he had reason to disbelieve Bessie’s story, but because the sordid character of her revelations had disarranged the pattern of his thinking. Last night, alone in the apartment, he had made unscientific investigation of Laura’s closets, chests of drawers, dressing table, and bathroom. He knew Laura, not only with his intelligence, but with his senses. His fingers had touched fabrics that had known her body, his ears had heard the rustle of her silks, his nostrils sniffed at the varied, heady fragrances of her perfumes. Never before had the stern young Scot known a woman in this fashion. Just as her library had revealed the quality of her mind, the boudoir had yielded the secrets of feminine personality.
He did not like to think of her drinking with a man in her bedroom like a cutie in a hotel.
In his coldest, most official voice he said, “If there was someone in the bedroom with her, we have a completely new picture of the crime.”
“You mean it wasn’t like you said in the paper, that it must have happened when the doorbell rang and she went to open it?”
“I accepted that as the most probable explanation, considering the body’s position.” He crossed from the bedroom slowly, his eyes upon the arrangement of carpets on the polished floor. “If a man had been in the bedroom with her, he might have been on the point of leaving. She went to the door with him, perhaps.” He stood rigid at the spot where the river of dark blood had been dammed by the thick pile of the carpet. “Perhaps they were quarreling and, just as he reached the door, he turned and shot her.”
“Gosh,” said Bessie, blowing her nose weakly, “it gives you the creeps, don’t it?”
From the wall Stuart Jacoby’s portrait smiled down.
Chapter 7
On Wednesday afternoon, twenty-four hours after the funeral, Lancaster Corey came to see me. I found him contemplating my porcelains lustfully.
“Corey, my good fellow, to what do I owe this dispensation?”
We wrung each other’s hands like long-lost brothers.
“I’ll not mince words, Waldo. I’ve come on business.”
“I smelled sulphur and brimstone. Have a drink before you reveal your diabolical schemes.”
He twisted the end of his white, crisp mustache. “I’ve got a great opportunity for you, my good friend. You know Jacoby’s work. Getting more valuable every day.”
I made a sound with my lips.
“It’s not that I’m trying to sell you a picture. As a matter of fact, I’ve already got a buyer. You know Jacoby’s portrait of Laura Hunt . . . several of the papers carried reproductions after the murder. Tragic, wasn’t it? Since you were so attached to the lady, I thought you’d want to bid before . . .”
“I knew there was something divine about your visit, Corey. Now I see that it’s your insolence.”
He shrugged off the insult. “Merely a courtesy.”
“How dare you?” I shouted. “How dare you come to my house and coolly offer me that worthless canvas? In the first place, I consider it a bad imitation of Speicher. In the second place, I deplore Speicher. And in the third, I loathe portraits in oil.”
“Very well. I shall feel free to sell it to my other buyer.” He snatched up his Fedora.
“Wait a minute,” I commanded. “How can you offer what you don’t own? That picture is hanging on the wall of her apartment now. She died with out a will, the lawyers will have to fight it out.”
“I believe that Mrs. Treadwell, her aunt, is assuming responsibility for the family. You might communicate with her or with Salsbury, Haskins, Warder, and Bone, her attorneys. The landlord, I heard this morning, had released the estate from its obligation to fulfill the lease on condition that the apartment is vacated by the first of the month. They’re going to make a special effort to hurry the proceedings . . .”
His knowledge infuriated me. “The vultures gather!” I shouted, smacking my forehead with an anguished palm. And a moment later cried out in alarm: “Do you know what arrangements have been made for her other things? Whether there’s to be a sale?”
“This bid came through a private channel. Someone who had seen the portrait in her apartment, no doubt, made inquiries of several dealers. He hadn’t known that we were Jacoby’s agents . . .”
“His taste makes it clear that he knows very little about painting.”
Corey made a purse of his lips. “Everyone is not as prejudiced as you are, Waldo. I prophesy the day when Jacoby will be worth real money.”
“Comfort yourself, my sweet buzzard. Both you and I shall be dead by that time. But tell me,” I continued mockingly, “is your prospective sucker some connoisseur who saw the picture in the Sunday tabloids and wants to own the portrait of a murder victim?”
“I do not believe that it would be strictly ethical to give my customer’s name.”
“Your pardon, Corey. My question must have shocked your delicate sensibilities of a business man. Unfortunately I shall have to write the story without using names.”
Lancaster Corey responded like a hunting dog to the smell of rabbit. “What story?”
“You have just given me material for a magnificent piece!” I cried, simulating creative excitement. “An ironic small story about the struggling young painter whose genius goes unrecognized until one of his sitters is violently murdered. And suddenly he, because he had done her portrait, becomes the painter of the year. His name is not only on the lips of collectors, but the public, the public, Corey, know him as they know Mickey Rooney. His prices skyrocket, fashionable women beg to sit for him, he is reproduced in Life, Vogue, Town and Country . . .”
My fantasy so titivated his greed that he could no longer show pride. “You’ve got to mention Jacoby’s name. The story would be meaningless without it.”
“And a footnote, no doubt, explaining that his works are on view in the galleries of Lancaster Corey.”
“That wouldn’t hurt.”
I spoke bitterly. “Your point of view is painfully commercial. Such considerations never enter my mind. Art, Corey, endures. All else passes. My piece would be as vivid and original as a Jacoby portrait.”
“Just include his name. One mention of it,” Corey pleaded.
“That inclusion would remove my story from the realms of literature and place it in the category of journalism. In that case, I’d have to know the facts, even if I did not include all of them. To protect my reputation for veracity, you understand.”
“You’ve won,” Corey admitted and whispered the art-lover’s name.
I sank upon the Biedermeier, laughing as I had not laughed since Laura had been here to share such merry secrets of human frailty.
Along with this genial and amusing tidbit, Corey had, however, brought some distressing information. As soon as I had got rid of him, I changed my clothes, seized hat and stick, and bade Roberto summon a taxi.
Hence to Laura’s apartment, where I found not only Mrs. Treadwell, whom I had expected to find there, but Shelby and the Pomeranian. Laura’s aunt was musing on the value of the few genuinely antique pieces, Shelby taking inventory, and the dog sniffing chair legs.
“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” cried Mrs. Treadwell, who, in spite of expressing open