No Sign of Murder

by Alan Russell

  “I am Vincent.”

  “I’m not comfortable with first names. Your last name is?”

  “My entire name is Vincent. You may call me Mr. Vincent if that pleases you.”

  It didn’t. I kicked some cigarette butts, and papers, and the solitary name, out of my path. I didn’t kick gently. There was a pattern of colors revealed under my feet, but it was hard to tell whether they had been painted, or were residue. Tubes of paint were strewn everywhere, and between slashed paintings and broken pallets you could see how colors had run into the concrete. There was enough junk food thrown around to keep both the cockroaches and the memory of Dan White’s Twinkie defense alive. There were nails, and canvas strips, and discarded sketches. The naked models must have loved walking around there.

  “So, when did you last see her, Vince?”

  He pretended not to notice the abbreviation. “December thirty-first.”

  “And how do you remember that date?”

  “We wished each other a Happy New Year.”

  “She said that to you?”

  “No. Vincent said it to her. And she motioned the same from her to me.”

  I didn’t know whether it was proper etiquette for a bystander to notice a naked model, but she was almost blue and our hot air wasn’t helping her. July was only a few days away, but her goose bumps didn’t know that. The building was cold.

  “Maybe she can take five?” I asked, and got a grateful smile for my request.

  “We won’t be that long.”

  I looked at Vincent. He was about my age, not quite as tall as I am, but a bit broader. I doubted whether paintbrushes alone had produced his muscles. His beard was thick and black, and like Mrs. Houston had said, it made his face difficult to read. There was a lot of energy in the man. His hands were active, something he didn’t consciously control. Every minute or so his right index finger jabbed out, then pushed forward under his left palm. It was almost as if he were washing his hands with a twist. It was hard to concentrate on his words when confronted by his tic. He and Captain Queeg probably would have gotten along just fine.

  “How did you meet Anita?”

  “Through another artist friend. She modeled for several of us.”

  “How long did she model for you?”

  “A few months.”

  “Every day?”

  “Most days.”

  “You paid her?”

  “Very well.”

  “You had performances put on in her apartment. Why?”

  “She volunteered her apartment.”

  “But the performances were directed at her. Why would a model get so much special attention?”

  He spoke through his tic. “Vincent needed Anita for evaluation purposes, someone without ears. Secret Societies will appeal to all senses. It won’t need music. It won’t need words. It will project itself on many levels.”

  “Secret Societies is the name of your play?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you choose the Masonic Temple for its premier?”

  “What could be more appropriate? And ironic?”

  “Where is the irony?”

  “The Masons are called a secret society, but they are really the opposite. They are old, dying men with handshakes, rings, and some comic mumbo jumbo. The real secret societies are found in individuals. They are in the thoughts of each of us. And sometimes actions.”

  “How were you able to gauge Anita’s reactions to the performances?”

  His moving hand went from a slashing turn to a simpatico patting motion of his head, something he didn’t even notice. “We were attuned. We didn’t need words. Vincent read her. She communicated what was missing.”

  “So, the deaf will appreciate your play?”

  “Yes. But it’s not designed for just the deaf, just the living. Vincent wanted to analyze the roots of performance, of art, to learn and relearn the many ways it appeals, and how it can appeal. Vincent didn’t want to be dependent on just sight, or sound, or smell. You can touch in many ways, and we will.”

  “Anita served as your guinea pig?”

  “One of many. Vincent has brought together many perspectives, many viewpoints. A blind man also reviewed the performances.”

  “And they were performed at his place?”

  “Yes.”

  I stepped close to the model. Her legs were in the air, somewhat reminiscent of a dog in wait of a stomach scratching. I refrained.

  “What kind of model is Anita?”

  “A good one. She needed to be retrained from her photography days. She needed to learn patience. But she was never easily distracted.”

  “I understand you were attracted to her.”

  Gods are not supposed to fall for mortals. It goes against the rules. Vincent reminded me of that.

  “If anything, it was the reverse. Vincent is not without his admirers. Looks are not enough to attract Vincent.”

  “But she fell for you?”

  “She came here when Vincent needed. She took her clothes off when Vincent told her. She posed in whatever way Vincent said.”

  “You make her sound like your slave.”

  “Vincent is a slave to art. It commands him. Vincent submits to it. It is the one that orders, not Vincent.”

  I sauntered over to Vincent’s painting. I didn’t think much of his latest orders. The painting depicted a birth. A woman, a model, as being born. She, a woman of about twenty-five, was coming out of a baby. She looked confused, and bloody, and angry. The baby birthing her looked serene.

  “Do you like it?”

  “No.”

  Vincent looked pleased. “Why not?”

  “I like Constable and Turner. I like clear images. I distrust disorder and conflicting messages. Your work isn’t clean enough for me.”

  Sometimes the elephant does notice the flea. “Unless snooping pays very, very well, you could never afford the price anyway.”

  “Unless I’m a very, very good snoop.”

  “If you were, you wouldn’t be here.” I think Vincent smiled behind his beard.

  “Are you shown in a particular gallery?”

  “No. But Vincent is having a special exhibition tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  He tried, but not very hard, to keep the braggadocio out of his voice. “The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.”

  “Will you be giving a talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you’ll spare me a minute there.” I gathered myself to leave, but then acted like I remembered something. I pointed to a large shed in the corner. It was well fortified, with formidable-looking locks. “What’s that for?”

  “My works, even unfinished works, are very valuable. This is a less than secure building. I sometimes store them in there.”

  “May I see?”

  I was clearly pushing the moment, but Vincent yielded with a sigh. He walked over to the armored shed. I took a moment to follow, and paused to slip my card and fifty dollars into the model’s hand. She palmed the bills, not having much else of a choice in the way of a hiding place.

  Vincent found the appropriate key and opened the door. There was a lot of unused space inside. A few canvases lay on their sides. It smelled of turpentine. Compared to the loft, it was surprisingly clean. Vincent looked at me for comment, but I didn’t have one. I knocked on the shed’s wall. It was thick enough to almost completely retard the sounds.

  “You will have to leave now,” he said impatiently. “Vincent has much work to do.”

  “Okay.”

  I was slow in shuffling out. He was already at work when I walked by the canvas again. “What will you call it?”

  “Birthing Pains.”

  I kept walking, turning back at the door only when Vincent started mumbling. But he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking at his painting. Something there bothered him. His tic took on a violent quality, and then he threw down his brush. He grabbed some tubes of paint. Groaning, snorting, he pulled off their caps
and then turned the tubes on his model. He squirted the paint at her, squeezed it out with his big hands. The paint arced and streamed. He went through four or five tubes, dropping one empty after another on the floor until crisscrossing trails of red ran the length of the model’s body. She looked too frightened to move. Her mouth was open, and some spittle ran down her chin, spittle that mixed with the red paint. Vincent’s noises stopped, replaced instead by the enthusiastic sounds of his slapping the paint around the model. His hands pressed the paint on her white flesh, rubbing it around her stomach and breasts and pubic area and legs. He did it none too gently.

  “That’s it,” he said, “that’s it.”

  I don’t think he noticed me watching the door, and I didn’t stay around to see if he’d use the tears dropping from the model’s eyes in his painting. I was only grateful he wasn’t telling his model to make love to the canvas.

  9

  A CLEAN SHIRT, A razor, and mouthwash awaited me at my office, and sometimes that’s about as much as you can ask out of life. The lavatory down the hall was unoccupied, so I gave myself a sink bath. After cleaning, I drank a cup of coffee and tried to stir some gray cells. Rodin wouldn’t have unpacked his chisel for me. I shifted some papers around on my desk and accomplished nothing, so I dialed Miss Tuntland for inspiration.

  My initial greeting wasn’t well received. “Do you look like you sound?” Her inquiry bordered between solicitous and mocking

  “I take it that’s not a compliment.”

  “You are a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Just another investigator looking for Rosebud.”

  “Looking very late. I called you last night.” Her voice was neutral.

  “And I can guess what you called me.” My accent wasn’t bad, but it needed the cigar and beetle brows as props. Miss Tuntland didn’t laugh, so I quite properly assumed she had never heard of Groucho.

  “I worked late,” I said, “and was working again at dawn.”

  “And was it worth it?”

  And were word games? “We’ll see. Last night I talked with a deaf man living on the east coast.”

  “He must have had some hearing aid.”

  Her Groucho was better than mine, but my ego prevented me from laughing. “And early this morning I met with an artist. Or artiste. He calls himself Vincent. I don’t think I’d like to see his self-portrait.”

  Miss Tuntland let me ramble a little more, heard enough of my complaints, and a few of my whines, then interrupted. “Are you calling to ask for some help?”

  I didn’t need to think about it. “Yes.”

  “Let me put you on hold. I have another call.”

  She wasn’t long, and didn’t need to be reminded where we left off. “Okay. Now what am I supposed to do?”

  “I’d like Vincent’s real name. He’s having an exhibition tomorrow at the Museum of Modern Art. They might be able to supply that information. Or call a few galleries. I’d be interested in any gossip. You should also expect a call from a woman who’s going to be very tentative. She’s Vincent’s model. I slipped her a bill and my card.”

  “Why don’t you like Vincent?”

  “He’s dirty,” I said, “and he’s a fanatic. Thinks his visions are inspired. Probably needs four seats to sit down. One for him, and three more for the supporting cast of the Trinity behind him.”

  Miss Tuntland didn’t seem as inclined to my prejudice. “A lot of artists are affected,” she said. “Society gives them that dispensation, even if private detectives don’t. And the ego’s necessary. It’s protective. Even the best artists have had to live with terrible rejection. Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime.”

  She sounded like she knew what she was talking about. Her “Gogh” rhymed with “awk.” Dutch pronunciations and bird cries always pique my interest.

  “Sounds like this is personal to you,” I said.

  “I paint,” she said.

  Behind those two words were a lot of pictures hidden in closets. “And I’ll bet you paint very well,” I said. “But even if you become a successful artist you won’t start using your own name in a sentence, and that’s what Vincent does. How would you like it if I said, “Winter is going to be out today?” Or, “Winter doesn’t operate that way?”

  “I suppose that depends on how Winter does operate.”

  We were playing the old movies today; first my Groucho, then hers, and now her Mae West. I further unfocused the projector, put a little James Cagney and grapefruit grinding in the scene. “Winter would like to operate right now by tweaking Tuntland’s nose. And Winter thanks Tuntland for her concern. And for her extra work.”

  The good thing about rental cars is that they are test models. The winding Berkeley Hills are perfect for rentals, almost as good as some of the back roads in Napa Valley. The sedan was put through all of the tests. While a little sluggish on acceleration, it performed admirably in handling and braking. I was almost by 1211 Overhill Drive when I noticed the hanging-by-a-rusty-thread sign that announced my location. I used the two-foot brake method on a curve going around fifty. The car fishtailed a little, but not much. The test drive ended off the main road and inches from a gate.

  I got out and opened the gate. A gravel driveway losing a battle to wild grass, and encroached on both sides by brush, was civilization’s only path. I drove a little way forward, followed the posted instructions to the rusty letter by getting out and closing the gate, then slowly crunched the car along a mostly upward ascent for almost a third of a mile. The gravel ended at a sprawling, shabby, ranch house. To the side of the house were two bungalow-type structures. Bridging the bungalows was a fully enclosed link fence that opened up to a grass enclosure complete with jungle gyms.

  Half a dozen other cars were parked in the driveway, but no one was in sight. The place was quieter and more private than the one-ring circus I expected. There was no road noise, and the grounds were silent. A horror writer would have called them ominously silent. I looked around, and waited for something to happen. When nothing did, I grew bothered. Something far older than memory signaled. It was hot enough outside for a hot sweat, but mine was cold. The hairs on my neck prickled. Behind the house a dog started to bark. A faint scratching started, then stopped, then started again. I followed the sound to its source.

  I half laughed. It reminded me of the primatologist who locked one of his experimental chimps in a bedroom. He said he wanted a keyhole view of how the chimp would react to his new environment. But when he bent down and peered through the keyhole, all he saw was a very brown eye peering back.

  Primates are the most popular attraction at every zoo in the world. Nonhuman primates I should say. Between gorillas and homo sapiens there is less than a two-percent difference in genetic makeup. One of my kissing cousins stared at me from a small, wired window in the bungalow nearest to me. I felt better for his presence, and thought he might have scratched the window just to reassure me.

  His head started moving back and forth in a rolling motion. Since neither one of us was at sea, and the window was at about the six-foot level, I guessed he was propped up by a tire.

  Our eye contact was interrupted when the door to the bungalow opened, and an intense young man walked out. “Please go inside the house,” he said quietly but firmly, “or else I’ll never get Joseph’s attention. We have his lessons to attend to.”

  A raspberry reverberated from the window. It was a good raspberry, had a lot of lip and Bronx in it, and a lot of recalcitrant schoolboy. It brought my first smile of the day.

  “That’s Joseph?” I asked.

  The man nodded.

  I pointed at the house. “Will I find Dr. Harrison in there?”

  “Yes. Don’t bother ringing the doorbell. It doesn’t work. Just walk in.”

  I took his advice and was at the door when Joseph unleashed a second raspberry. I realized my rudeness, and stopped to wave at him. He didn’t wave back, didn’t perform, just continued to stare. I reluctantly s
topped waving, wiped my neck with a handkerchief, then pushed the door open and called out a greeting.

  No one called back, and as self-guided tours are usually the most interesting, I set out on one. There must have once been a living room in the ranch house, but the area had long since been usurped by piles of books and periodicals and gorilla memorabilia. The room was decorated in a gorilla motif. There were wind-up apes, stuffed gorillas, china gorillas, and all manner of trinket gorillas. Gorilla visages abounded, from benign to terrifying. The walls were lined with pictures and paintings and framed photographs. The Gorilla Project had its share of celebrity followers. Some well-known figures, actors, and politicians were posed in pictures with the gorillas and what I assumed was Dr. Harrison. The gorillas and the doctor didn’t smile for the photos, but their guests had plenty to spare.

  I lingered over a huge box of photos that would never find an album. I hoped to find a picture of Anita at work, but humans were definitely second banana to the apes. When I finished with the photos I moved on to a stuffed gorilla in the corner. There was a lot of dust on him and his cymbals. I wiped him, and wound him, and he played with considerable clatter.

  “What do you want?”

  The voice belonged to a face made familiar by the photographs. Dr. Harrison was about fifty, tall and thin. He was spectacled, and even behind his glasses you could see the dark circles under his eyes. His hair was mostly silver and three weeks too long. Harrison’s height was negated by his stoop. His shoulders were permanently bent forward, the position of yet another one of Atlas’s successors. He wasn’t an unhandsome man, but he had been tired for too long. Harrison was undoubtedly the chief, and by the looks of it, indifferent and overworked, administrator. If he had been more of a diplomat he would have been driving on a paved driveway, and probably had a sinecure at some university. He didn’t look like he knew how to compromise, and the prospect of his learning was dim. He was too harried to remember social graces, either that or he didn’t give a damn about them. The toy gorilla stopped clanging and I spoke.

  “My name’s Stuart Winter. I had an appointment to see you. I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Anita Walters.”