The Fat Lady's Ghost

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Alex, you don’t think it was stolen!”

  “I don’t know what to think.” He climbed up on a chair, stuffed the bracelet back into the crack in the wall and pounded the molding into place. “Hand me up that thing that was hanging here. I don’t want anybody to notice we took it down.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, Corin,” he said impatiently, “you don’t get the picture. If somebody’s using the kitchen as a hiding place for stolen goods, then you’re a menace to him. Or her. Until you came along, nobody was using the room. Now whoever put the stuff here can’t be sure when you might stumble on something you shouldn’t see and start asking questions. And if you did, he might shut you up in a hurry.”

  “What do you mean?” Icy prickles were beginning to run up and down her spine.

  “If anybody stole this bracelet, he ran a big risk. He might be willing to risk a little more in order to keep it. You could wind up the same way as Rosie Garside.”

  “Alex!” Corin’s throat was tight. “Madame Despau-Davy insists Selim never attacked Rosie.”

  The lanky artist nodded grimly. “I know. And that it wasn’t Rosie who killed Selim. I tried to kid myself into thinking she was all wet; but I guess I always knew it didn’t really add up. Even if that poor old crippled animal could have managed to jump her, Rosie would never have swung on him. She wouldn’t swat a fly without apologizing to it first. But the police were satisfied, and I couldn’t see getting a big thing started when there didn’t seem to be any motive for a third person to be involved. But now,” Alex looked up at the molding, and shook his head. “It makes you stop and think. What else did you say you’ve found?”

  “The first week I was here, there was a diamond ring inside the handle of the rolling pin; but it’s been gone for quite a while. And I told you about finding a ruby necklace last night in an old ricer. Do you want to see it?”

  “Frankly, no,” said Alex. “When I remember how broke I am, it’s too darn tempting.”

  “I thought about that, too,” said the girl. “I mean, about using jewelry to raise money in a hurry. When I found the ring gone, I assumed Madame Despau-Davy had sold it to meet some emergency.”

  “There hasn’t been one,” said Alex positively. “I’d have heard about it.”

  “I didn’t realize you and she were all that chummy.”

  “We’re not,” he grinned. “She doesn’t trust artists. It was a Tattooed Lady who lured her husband away from her.”

  “Then how would you know?”

  “I’d know. Forget about it, will you? It’s getting late, and I want to finish my sketch. Let’s try something else. Pick up that stove lifter and make believe you’re fixing the fire.”

  She obeyed, protesting, “How can you just go on working as if nothing had happened?”

  “Why not?” Alex was already busy with his pen and pad. “For one thing, it gives us a reason to be here. If anybody comes around to see what we’re up to, we’ve got the sketch to show I was drawing and you were posing. So neither of us was poking around getting into trouble. Right?”

  “I guess so,” said the girl unhappily.

  Her own impulse was to get out of the kitchen in a hurry. At that very moment, she must be standing on the exact spot where the Fat Lady’s body had been found. Had the old leopard really frightened her to death, as the police believed? Had it been a weird accident, as Madame Despau-Davy insisted? Or did the finding of the jewelry mean that there was a more sinister reason for the deaths of Rosie and Selim?

  “Hold still, can’t you?” barked Alex. “You’re quivering like a bowl of Jell-o.”

  Chapter 11

  Corin slept badly that night. Her mind would not relax. It was too full of huge, black question marks. Which of her fellow-boarders was a jewel thief?

  If she had not been so ridiculously standoffish, she might know them all well enough by now to make at least an intelligent guess. She would feel safer about using the kitchen if she knew which of them she must be on guard against.

  Could it be Angela? Would she get a chance to steal the jewels she modeled at fashion shows, perhaps? But did they allow the models to parade anything that valuable in public? And if they did, wouldn’t a store detective have his eye on them every minute?

  What if they weren’t stolen at all? What if Angela had them given to her by a rich admirer? That made no sense. If Angela had a wealthy boy friend, why was she always hanging around the living room hoping to scrounge a dinner from one of the boys in the house? Anyway, girls like Angela could think of better things to do with diamond bracelets than poke them away in dark corners. She would either wear them or keep them in a safe-deposit box.

  The twins? They might be able to work some kind of swindle based on the fact that they looked so much alike. Corin drifted off into a light doze, troubled by dreams of Jeanie and Jennie popping in and out of closets, tossing fabulous gems back and forth like beanbags. She woke up giggling. It was too silly. Such things happened only in dreams.

  Could Jack Banks have taken the things? He didn’t need the money, of course; but he might have done it for kicks. That was as crazy an idea as the identical-twin scheme. In the first place, Jack was too nice. In the second, he was much too lazy.

  That narrowed the field down to Will and Steve. She hardly knew either of them. They both seemed like ordinary, decent kids. That meant nothing, of course. A jewel thief would hardly go around all the time with a black stocking pulled over his face. The more ordinary he appeared to be, the less likely that anybody would spot him. She would have to find out more about those two from Alex.

  But could she leave out Alex himself? What did she really know about the big artist? Only that he could paint like an angel and had an unpredictable disposition. According to his own story, he was desperately hard up. He had knocked around the country doing all sorts of odd jobs. Who knew what sort of characters he might have come up against; or what queer ideas and unlawful skills he might have learned from them?

  “But he was the one who found the bracelet,” she argued with herself. “He could have pretended not to see it and tacked the molding back over it, and I’d never even have known it was there. He was more surprised than I was.”

  So what? How did he know she hadn’t caught sight of the stones before she lost her balance? And naturally he’d act surprised. What was he going to do, leap up and say, “Oh, yes, there’s that bracelet I stole last week.”? When he said it was dangerous for her to 'let anybody know she had found the jewelry, was he actually warning her not to meddle?

  That was crazy. It couldn’t possibly be Alex. Why not? Because he had done a beautiful portrait of her? A man could be the greatest artist who ever lived and still have no moral principles whatever. Look at Gauguin.

  Gauguin wasn’t the greatest painter who ever lived, she argued with herself. Why pick on Alex just because he was poor?

  Suppose it was Madame Despau-Davy, after all? What if all those years in the circus had given her such a passion for bright, glittering things that she had become a kleptomaniac? Look at the sequined gowns she wore and all that costume jewelry.

  But how could the old woman manage it? She was fairly nimble for her age; but she didn’t have what it took to be a cat burglar, that was for sure. Maybe she trained the ocelots to steal for her, like the pet magpie in the classic mystery story who was taught to fly in through bedroom windows and pick jewels off dressing tables. That was too absurd even to think about. The landlady might pick pockets on the subway, perhaps; but anybody who could afford the kind of jewelry Corin had been finding would take a taxi.

  Besides, Corin just plain did not want her landlady to be a thief. In spite of all her resolutions not to get involved with people in the house, she had grown fond of the gallant old girl.

  Who, after all, was, the most likely suspect? The same one who had probably been responsible for the deaths of Rosie and Selim, of course; the invisible Leo. He was the only boarder who lived close to t
he kitchen. He could hardly keep his loot in his own room for fear that the never seen but fantastically efficient cleaning woman would find it. But what better hiding place than the kitchen where he could keep an eye on it and get at it whenever he wanted without anyone’s knowing. No wonder he kept out of sight all the time. Nobody ever even seemed to remember he was in the house except Madame Despau-Davy and Alex.

  She wished her thoughts would not keep coming back to Alex. Sighing, she got up, straightened her rumpled sheets, turned her pillow to the cool side, and read three chapters of a dull book. At long last, she fell asleep.

  Chapter 12

  Alex did not appear at school at all the following day. After classes were over, Mr. Hinkley came up to Corin.

  “I wish you’d tell Alex that Oswega wants to see the painting tomorrow at four o’clock. I hope he doesn’t decide to throw a temperament and not show up.”

  “He’ll be here if I have to drag him,” snapped the girl. “Alex and his temperaments make me sick.”

  “Now, don’t be too hard on the guy,” said Hink. “A talent like his isn’t easy to live with, especially when you haven’t the money to support it.”

  Money again! Corin winced, recalling her uneasy suspicions about the jewels hidden in Madame Despau-Davy’s kitchen. “Is he really that hard up?” she asked, trying to make it sound offhand.

  “Hasn’t got a nickel to his name,” replied the instructor positively. “And he’s the most obstinate young cuss about taking help that I ever ran into. We practically had to fight with him to get him to accept a scholarship. He’s been washing dishes in an all-night delicatessen and living on pastrami sandwiches ever since I’ve known him. A couple of times, he’s paid his room rent by doing portraits of his landlady’s pets. She must have quite a menagerie.”

  “She does,” said Corin. “He didn’t tell me that.”

  “No, I don’t expect he would. Alex doesn’t talk much. He did all right this past summer. We got him a job as a sign painter’s helper, and he made enough to keep himself for a while. He says he’s fed up with washing dishes. I should think he would be.”

  The girl felt somewhat relieved. Alex certainly seemed to have been acting honestly; even rather admirably. She must ask Madame Despau-Davy if she might see the pictures of the cats. Maybe there was one of Selim. She was curious to see what the old black leopard had looked like. It would not help her solve the mystery of his death, of course; but it might be of some aid in getting a clearer picture in her mind. Right now, the whole thing was too confusing and too frightening.

  Delivering Mr. Hinkley’s message was no problem. As she passed the coffee shop near the school, the rangy artist came loping out the door.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I stopped to talk to Hink. He wants you to be in the studio tomorrow afternoon at four. Mister Oswega’s coming to look at the painting.”

  “Good.” Alex scooped the portfolio out from under her arm. “Come on, I’ve been waiting half an hour for you.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “Ipswich Street. I’ve found a studio; but I wanted you to see it before I took it. The guy has to know right away.” With no further explanation, Alex strode off.

  Why me, Corin wanted to know; but she had not breath enough to ask. As always, her long legs could just about keep up with him by half trotting.

  “This is it,” Alex said finally, and not a moment too soon for his winded companion.

  “It” was a somewhat grimy but still imposing dark red brick building of Victorian architecture. Huge windows, each a full story high, covered its façade.

  “Why, it’s all studios,” she exclaimed.

  “That’s right. This is the Fenway Building, the only real artists’ building in Boston. A lot of great stuff has come out of here.”

  Alex’s attitude as he led her up the steps was almost reverent. “I came over here just on the off-chance that there might be something available. The custodian told me one of the tenants had just got an offer to spend a year in Italy and wanted to sublet his place fast. It looks like an ideal setup to me.”

  The studio was affecting Corin much as the school had done. To be sure, the walls were bare plaster, darkened and smudged from decades of use. The floor was spotted with blobs of many-colored paint. The furnishings consisted only of a model stand, a couple of easels, a pile of canvases and paint boxes, a big old wooden table much the worse for wear, and a couple of kitchen chairs. But to Corin, it was heaven.

  “Alex, it’s perfect! What glorious light.”

  “He wants ninety-five bucks a month. Do you think that’s too much?”

  “Would it include heat and light?”

  “Yes.”

  The girl was poking around, enchanted. “And here’s a little sink out in the back room where you can wash your brushes, and lots of shelves for art supplies. And a great big closet up on the balcony where you can store canvases and things. It couldn’t be more conveniently arranged.”

  “That’s what I thought. So you think I ought to take it?”

  “This instant! If—if you need the rent money—”

  “No, I’ve got enough for the first month. And if that guy doesn’t buy the painting, I thought maybe I could pick up a little free-lance work doing pasteup or something.”

  “Now, cut that out. I told you Oswega’s going to buy the portrait. I feel it in my bones. Go ahead and sign the lease, or whatever you have to do.”

  “The guy said he’d move this stuff out,” Alex indicated the pile of painting materials, “but he’d leave the furniture if we wanted it. We’ll need the model stand, and I figured you could use the table to do your homework.”

  “My homework?”

  “Sure.” He dumped her portfolio on the gouged and battered table. “At least it will give you room to spread out.”

  “But I can’t just move in on you.”

  “Why not? You’ll be here posing all the time, anyway.”

  “But you don’t want me puttering around while you’re trying to concentrate on your painting.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I sort of like having you around. You don’t jabber,” said the artist almost apologetically.

  “It would be great fun working in a real studio,” Corin mused, “and I wouldn’t have to shoo a couple of ocelots off my drawing pad every time I wanted to use it. Maybe I’d be able to turn out something halfway decent, for a change.”

  “Okay, then, I’ll call the guy right now. There’s a pay station down in the foyer. Then we’ll go back to the house and get our stuff together and call a cab and—”

  “Wait a second, Michelangelo,” laughed the girl. “How about a pause for refreshments somewhere along the line? I didn’t have any lunch except one of the school canteen’s ham-and-cardboard sandwiches and a carton of milk.”

  “Come to think of it,” Alex blinked, “I haven’t eaten all day, except for a cup of coffee while I was waiting for you.”

  “Then it’s high time you got something in your stomach. No wonder you’re so skinny. I tell you what. You probably have a lot more equipment to move than I do, so I’ll run down to the kitchen and fix us a quick bite while you’re packing.”

  “You fed me last night,” he protested.

  “So what? Didn’t you like it?”

  “It was the best meal I ever ate in my life.”

  “Then why should you refuse another? You know, it would be a good idea for me to give you dinner every night. That would sort of pay for my sharing the studio.” “But you’re going to model for me, aren’t you? That will more than pay, as if it mattered. How about if I buy the food and you cook it?”

  “Why don’t we split the grocery bills fifty-fifty?” asked the girl. “All right, it’s a deal. I can feed you a lot better and cheaper than you could eat out, and it will be more convenient for both of us.” And, she added to herself, I won’t have to be downstairs alone at night with all that hidden jewelry. Much as she liked the old
kitchen, it was beginning to get on her nerves.

  “Sounds great, but won’t Jack get sore of we start spending so much time together?” said Alex innocently.

  “What if he does?” she sputtered. “Just because he’s hounded me into going out with him a few times, he needn’t think he has a claim on me.”

  “I thought you liked the guy.”

  “I like him all right. He’s a good kid, but I can’t say I find him particularly interesting. And if you go on making stupid remarks about him, I won’t make you any more Norwegian meatballs.”

  “Okay, Johansen.” He grinned. “You win. I don’t suppose there are any left, by the way?”

  “You know perfectly well there aren’t. You ate every single one last night; and then you took a piece of bread and mopped up the last speck of gravy. But don’t worry. You’ll get fed.”

  Chapter 13

  Alex did get fed, in an amazingly short time, on creamed tuna with noodles, green peas from a fresh-frozen package, and a tossed salad with Corin’s own secret dressing. For dessert, she produced a jam omelet and a pot of her superb coffee.

  “This was a great idea,” he sighed at last, holding out his cup for more coffee. “Is it going to be like this every night?”

  “Heavens, I just threw things together tonight. I’ll do lots better when we get organized. Saturday morning, I’ll bake a batch of cookies and maybe a pie, and make another pot of meatballs. We might even have pot roast, if it isn’t too expensive. Or I could stuff a big chicken and have some left over for later in the week. I’m pretty good with leftovers.”

  “You’re good, period. But doesn’t it cost a fortune to eat like this?”

  “The most expensive thing we had tonight was a thirty-five cent can of tuna fish. Our whole meal cost less than a dollar.”

  “And that dress you have on, how much did you pay for it?”

  By now, Corin knew better than to be insulted by Alex’s blunt questions. She looked down at the frock she was wearing, a lightweight wool in a soft green color with delightful crewel embroidery on the big patch pockets.