Maggie laid her hand over the girl’s. “I don’t know, Gloria. Could have been mistaken identity. Can you tell me if he was worried about anything? You know, was he acting different than usual?”
Gloria nodded. “He was different, but not worried. He was very excited. He said that at last he had met someone who was going to get him well-known.”
“He was a painter, wasn’t he? Watercolours or oils?”
“Oils.” Gloria looked down at her plate. “But I have to confess that I know very little about art.” She shrugged. “Especially this modern stuff—Alex tried to explain it to me, but I like pictures to show real stuff like flowers and . . . trees . . .”
“His paintings were surreal?”
“Yes, that was the word he used.” She gave a humourless laugh. “I really tried to understand, but he said it didn’t matter as long as I loved him.”
“Gloria, do you still have the key to his apartment?”
The girl nodded. “The lease isn’t up for a couple of months. In fact,” she said shyly, “I’ve been staying there for the past few days. I’m sort of thinking of taking over the lease.”
“Do you think you could let me see it?”
“I suppose, but there’s not much to see.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to go now. My supervisor is very strict.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Five. Do you mean you want to see it today?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up after work if that’s all right.”
“Okay,” she answered reluctantly.
• • •
“WHAT KEY?”
It was early afternoon when Nat stood on Sheldon White’s front doorstep facing its very belligerent owner.
Sheldon looked up and down the street before saying, “You’d better come in. The bloody neighbours are already having a field day.”
“The spare key to the gallery is missing,” Nat explained when they were seated opposite each other at the yellow arborite and chrome kitchen table.
“I’ve got one of my own.”
“Did you lend it to anyone?”
“No. Why would I do that? And you lied to me,” he accused.
“Lied to you?”
“You told me they would let me go home. They kept me in a cell—like a . . . a . . . common criminal.”
“You’re a suspect,” Nat answered bluntly.
“Suspect! There’s no way I could’ve killed that man.” He shuddered. “He was killed with a knife—I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Nat tended to believe him but he answered brutally, “It doesn’t take much for someone—even if they can’t stand the sight of blood—to kill in a fit of anger.”
“Not me, man.”
“How long had you known the dead man?”
“Couple of months. I told you he was renting space in my studio.”
“Good artist?”
“If you like that kind of painting. He was a surrealist.”
“Did it sell?”
“He told me that someone was showing interest. And before you ask me, I don’t know who it was. Anything else you want?”
“I’d like to take a look in your studio.”
“It’s practically empty. All the stuff’s been stacked against the wall because I’ve had to have someone in to clean up.” He reached up to a wooden keyboard and selected a large key. “I’ll show you.”
Just as Sheldon had said, there was nothing to show that a gruesome murder had taken place in the studio. All the easels and the wooden dais, the latter showing dark wet patches, had been folded and placed against the walls along with stacked stools and chairs. The artistic “fainting couch” that had held the bloody corpse had disappeared completely.
“The cops took the couch for evidence,” Sheldon explained. He turned and walked out of the studio then waited until Nat had joined him outside. “I think I should have police protection,” he announced bluntly. Turning the key in the studio’s padlock, he added, “My life is in danger.”
“Do you have any enemies?”
“Not as far as I know. But it stands to reason that the man who killed Alex must’ve thought it was me. Suppose he comes back to finish the job?”
“But you can’t see any reason why someone would want you dead?”
“No. But look, I worked for Jonathan Standish and he was murdered, and then Alex gets killed in my studio. They must think I know something.” Leading the way back toward the house, he turned to face Nat. “Or someone is jealous because I have all this.” He waved his arms to encompass the backyard and the studio.
“I don’t think that could be a motive,” Nat answered dryly.
“Well, Alex’s death has to be connected to Jonathan’s murder. They must think I know something.”
“Think hard. Do you?”
Sheldon shook his head. “I keep going over those last few days before Jonathan . . .” his voice trailed away.
“And?” Nat encouraged.
“There were several phone calls and he always made sure that he was alone in the office before he would talk to the caller.”
“Didn’t Alice wonder who was calling?”
“I guess you’d better ask her. I offered to help in any way I could after her husband’s death, but she would never confide in me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “The only one she talks to is that bitch of a sister, Jane.”
Nat started to walk around the side of the house to where he’d parked his car. “Thanks for showing me the studio.”
“Wait a minute. Do you think I should ask the cops for protection?”
“If you’re that worried, talk to them. But if you recall anything that will help us find Jonathan or Alex’s murderer—give me a call.”
• • •
MAGGIE FOLLOWED THE girl up the two flights of stairs to the apartment and waited while Gloria fumbled in her handbag for the key to 304. As they entered the small vestibule, stale air, the strong smell of cat, and two tabby felines greeted them.
Gloria bent down and fondled each of the cats before turning to Maggie. “If you wait a sec, I’ll open the blinds and get some daylight in here.” She disappeared into the gloom, the cats following on her heels mewing plaintively. “I know, I know, you want your supper.”
It was a dismal little apartment, and opening the blinds did little to enhance it. Maggie thought that it must have been the girl who had added throw cushions and the multi-coloured crocheted afghan on the worn sofa.
“As you can see,” Gloria said apologetically, “it needs some fixing up.”
“The cats belong to you?” Maggie asked when Gloria returned to the living room.
“Alex’s. Luckily, I like cats. They miss him, though.”
“Are these paintings his?” Maggie pointed to three large, brightly coloured pictures hanging on the wall. If they were, she could see why the girl found them hard to understand. They reminded Maggie of some of Picasso’s paintings.
Gloria nodded. “They are supposed to be very good. Alex told me he had a buyer for them.”
“Did he leave a will?”
“I don’t know. I guess all his paintings and the furniture belong to his family now,” she said wistfully.
“Has anyone contacted them?”
“The police told me that his older brother would be arriving to make funeral arrangements in a few days.” She looked sadly up at one of the paintings depicting half a face and disjointed parts of arms and legs floating among purple and yellow clouds. “It’s called Enchantment.”
“Alex didn’t paint these, did he?” Maggie pointed at two small paintings lined up on the couch. They were old-fashioned winter scenes.
“I don’t think so. I found them tucked away in the small bedroom closet and thought they would look pretty on that wall.”
Maggie opened her handbag to extract her glasses. “You found them in a closet?”
“They’re so small that I don’t suppose they’re worth much,” the girl replied, “
but they’re kind of cute, don’t you think? There’s another one in there, but it’s kind of ugly, just some old guy.” And she went back into the bedroom and came back with another painting.
“Have you shown them to anyone else?” Maggie asked casually.
“No.” Gloria seemed puzzled by the question. “I only found them two days ago.”
Maggie straightened up. “Has anybody been around asking about Alex?”
“No one knows I’m here . . . except my parents, of course.”
“How do they feel about you living here on your own?”
“They’re not happy about it, but I like my independence.”
“Let’s sit down for a minute,” Maggie suggested gently.
“Is something wrong?”
“I think it would be a very good idea if you went back to live with your parents.”
“Go back? Why?”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen. Or I will be in a couple of months. And you don’t know what it’s like at home—I have to share a bedroom with my sister, my mother is always nagging, and my brother bugs me . . .”
“Gloria, I think you’re in great danger staying here on your own.”
“But I told you . . . nobody knows I’m here.”
“I think these paintings are very valuable and most probably stolen.” Maggie paused to add weight to her words. “I think they might be the reason Alex was killed.”
“Alex wasn’t a thief!” the girl replied indignantly. “He wouldn’t have stolen them.”
Maggie walked back to the sofa and carefully gathered up the paintings. “Find me a bag or a pillowcase, anything big enough to wrap them up in. And then please hurry and get your things together.”
“I don’t want to go back home . . . I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Maggie looked around the room. “Is there a telephone here?”
The girl shook her head. “Alex couldn’t afford one. But there’s one down in the lobby.”
“Okay. While you’re packing, I’ll dash down and call my partner. Lock the door after me and don’t open it for anyone else. I’ll give three sharp raps when I come back, okay?”
“But . . .”
Maggie pushed the girl toward the bedroom. “Get going.”
“But why? What’s so special about those pictures?”
“I’ll explain when I come back.”
Maggie found the public telephone, naturally in the darkest corner of the lobby, along with a mutilated phonebook hanging by a chain. Written on the grimy wall above the battered instrument were names, phone numbers, messages offering a good time to any caller, and graffiti—in pictures and lurid written detail. Maggie, wondering how anybody would willingly live in such a place, reached for the telephone only to find that the cord had been cut.
• • •
HENNY WAS IN the process of covering her typewriter when Nat arrived back at the office.
“Heard from Maggie?” he asked, walking by her to go into his own domain.
“She called an hour ago, Mr. Nat. She went to get that Wentworth girl and they go to the boyfriend’s place. She said not to wait for her.” She handed him a pile of small yellow slips of paper. “Your messages.”
“Did she say what the address was?” he called to Henny as she departed.
“It’s on the file somewhere. I haff to go, Mr. Nat. We are taking our boys to the hockey game.”
Nat wrote up his notes then made a quick call to George to confirm their usual Friday bowling date. He stood up, stretched, and glanced at his wristwatch. It was close to six.
• • •
MAGGIE, TELEPHONE STILL in hand, spun around as the main door of the building slammed open and a tired-looking woman, her wet hair plastered to her face, came in lugging three paper bags of groceries. “That telephone’s always on the fritz,” she said, hip-shutting the door behind her. “God! It’s coming down in buckets out there.”
“I don’t suppose there’s another telephone . . .”
“The superintendent’s got one. He’ll let you use it . . . for a price.” She looked Maggie up and down. “You must be new.”
Maggie shook her head. “Just visiting. Where does the superintendent live?”
“In the basement. Apartment One. You’ll have to bang hard as he’s deaf as a post and he watches the wrestling on TV this time of night.”
Maggie waited until the woman had disappeared up the stairs before descending the concrete steps. It took several thumps on the door before an unkempt man, probably in his sixties, grudgingly opened it.
“What do you want?”
“Can I use your telephone?”
“You’re not one of the tenants.”
“No. I’m visiting.”
“Which apartment?” he asked suspiciously.
“Does it matter? I just want to use the phone.”
“Only local and it’ll cost you fifty cents. It’s over there.”
Maggie opened her purse, thrust a couple of quarters into the man’s hand, picked up the phone, and dialed. After the fourth ring Maggie realized that Nat and Henny had gone, and she waited on the line for the answering service to cut in.
“Broadway Answering Service.”
“Hi Joyce. It’s Mrs. Spencer. Would you pass on an urgent message to Mr. Southby to call me at home as soon as possible?”
“Will do. Have a good evening.”
“Which apartment did you say you were visiting?” the man asked suspiciously as Maggie walked toward the door.
“I didn’t,” she replied tersely before shutting the door firmly behind her and making for the concrete stairs that led back up to the lobby. As she put her foot on the first step she head the sound of clattering feet racing down the stairs and then the bang of the front door closing. Someone’s in a hurry!
Winded after just three flights of stairs? I must be getting old! Maggie leaned against the wall until she had regained her breath before heading down the hall to apartment 304. Reaching out to give the pre-arranged three raps, she saw that the door was ajar. “Gloria,” she called, rushing in. “Where are . . . ?”
Gloria was sitting on the floor with her back to the sofa. “I . . . I . . . couldn’t stop him,” she said. “He was too strong.”
“What happened?” Maggie demanded, helping the girl to her feet.
“I heard the raps and I opened the door and he hit me in the mouth . . . and . . . and he took the pictures.” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m bleeding . . .”
“Did you recognize him?” Maggie asked, rummaging through her handbag to find a handkerchief. “Here, hold this against your lip.”
“He was wearing a toque and he had a scarf around his face.”
“Did you notice anything else about him?” She led the girl into the bathroom and began running the cold water.
“No . . . Yes. He smelled like flowers . . . Aftershave, I suppose.”
“Okay. Let’s see the damage. Do any of your teeth feel loose?”
The girl shook her head.
“Now do those cats have some kind of carrier?”
“A carrier?” She shook her head. “Why do you want a carrier for them?”
“Because, my girl, you and those kitties are going back to your mother. Where do you live?”
“My mother doesn’t like cats, and I want to stay here.”
“Do you want to end up dead like your boyfriend?”
Gloria shook her head. “But . . .”
“Gloria, gather your clothes together,” she ordered sternly, “and let’s get out of here . . . now!”
It was a struggle to stuff the cats into pillowcases and then get them into the back of the mini, but at long last and with a sigh of relief Maggie pulled away from the apartment block. “Now where to?”
“Sutherland Avenue on the North Shore.”
“That’s a long way to go.”
“Why do you think I wanted to stay in Alex’s apartment?”
; • • •
“SO YOU’VE COME back,” Gladys Wentworth greeted her daughter. “Told you, didn’t I? And who are you?” she asked Maggie.
“My partner and I are looking into Alex’s death, and it’s not a good time for Gloria to be alone in his apartment.”
“You with the cops, then?”
“Private investigators.” Maggie placed the bagged cats down inside the front door.
“What’s in those pillowcases?” Gladys Wentworth asked suspiciously.
“They’re Alex’s cats,” Gloria cried. “I couldn’t leave them, Mom. I promise I will look after them.”
“Any mess and they’re out. You understand? Good of you to bring her home,” she said to Maggie, and as the woman closed the door, Maggie heard her yelling, “There’ll be hell to pay when your father sees those cats!”
“And thank you, too,” Maggie mumbled as she ran through the rain and slid into her car. She glanced at her watch. “Ten o’clock! It’ll take me most of an hour to get home.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nat and George were happy. Their team had bowled the pants off their opponents and they had celebrated well at Simon’s Bar and Grill next door to the bowling alley.
“When are you and Maggie going to tie the knot?” George asked, shrugging into his overcoat.
“Can’t be too soon for me,” Nat answered.
“What’s holding it up?”
“The stigma of divorce. Maggie won’t do anything that might ruin Harry’s reputation.”
“You’d think he’d want to be free,” George said. “Isn’t their daughter getting married soon?”
“Next month. I’m hoping Midge’s wedding will make Maggie change her mind. Anyway,” he said, glancing at the clock, “it’s almost my bedtime. Better get going.”
• • •
IT WAS NINE-THIRTY by the time he arrived back at his apartment, and he debated whether he should call Maggie. She had probably telephoned during the evening and realized that he wasn’t home from his bowling date. It was really too late to call her now, and he would be seeing her in the morning anyway.
I’m going to call it a day, he said to himself firmly. He plodded wearily into the bathroom before yanking his clothes off and throwing them toward a chair—they missed. He flopped into bed and blissfully closed his eyes and let himself drift. The jangling telephone brought him to with a start.
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