“I didn’t say anything about murders. All I want to know is if you wrote this list and gave it to Jonathan.”
“I told you I know nothing about it. Now look what you’ve made me do!” he said as, in his agitation, he knocked over the easel at which he had been working. When Nat knocked at the door, he had thrown a sheet over the painting, and now easel, painting and sheet were all on the floor. Bending down, he quickly picked up the easel then the painting and threw the sheet back over it, but not before Nat saw that the painting was an exact replica of the one on the page pinned to an adjoining easel. It had obviously been cut from a book of art illustrations.
“You copy paintings?” Nat asked, nodding toward the covered easel.
“All artists copy paintings,” Sheldon said scathingly. “It’s the only way to understand the techniques of the old masters.”
“But I think that you are the SW on this list because it says here, ‘SW—copies or originals.’ And while we’re discussing this list, I think that the CKs it mentions are the Cornelius Krieghoffs that were stolen from Alex’s apartment. And I think,” Nat said enunciating each word very clearly and advancing toward the hapless Sheldon, “that Jonathan gave the Krieghoffs to you for safekeeping, and when he was killed, you panicked and slipped them to Alex.”
“No! No!” he screamed. “Why don’t you all leave me alone?”
“And,” Nat went on relentlessly, “someone wanted them so badly that they were prepared to kill for them. In fact, Alex was killed instead of you.”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Sheldon screamed again, and then to Nat’s complete surprise the man lunged at him and landed a vicious uppercut to his jaw.
Finding himself flying backward, Nat grabbed at the covered easel to try to stop his momentum, but he and the stand went crashing onto the concrete floor followed by an enraged Sheldon still throwing wild punches. Nat tried to fight back but Sheldon, now sitting astride his chest, grabbed a hunk of Nat’s hair and gave his head a sickening bash against the floor.
When Nat didn’t move again, Sheldon, spent and sobbing, got slowly to his feet to look down in absolute horror at his victim. “I told you and you wouldn’t listen,” he whimpered. “You should’ve let me alone.”
Nat groaned while Sheldon, looking around in a panic, grabbed a wad of paint rags. He knelt down beside Nat again, stuffed one of them into his mouth, and used another to tie the gag in place. When Nat tried feebly to pull the gag from his mouth, Sheldon bashed his head on the concrete floor again. This time when Nat was motionless, Sheldon, muttering and crying, began unfastening Nat’s tie. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to do this . . . it’s your own fault . . . you wouldn’t leave me alone . . .” A few minutes later Nat was lying on his side with his hands trussed firmly behind him with his own blue silk tie. Sheldon then secured Nat’s ankles with a piece of string that had been wrapped around a large painting ready to be shipped.
Then, making sure all the lights were out, Sheldon locked and bolted the studio door behind him, and fled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Maggie waited impatiently outside the Queen Elizabeth theatre. “Where in heaven’s name are you, Nat?” Glancing again at her watch, she realized there were only about five minutes left to curtain time, and she was not going to miss the start of the ballet just because he couldn’t get there on time. Giving an exasperated sigh, she walked over to the box office and handed Nat’s ticket to the attendant. “Would you tell my friend that I’ve gone in?”
It took a while before she could relax, but once the poignant strains of the ballet’s overture began to fill the theatre, she gave into Tchaikovsky’s soothing music. It was only when the first intermission came that Maggie, turning to speak to Nat, remembered he had been late. She knew that if he arrived after the ballet started, he would have had to wait for the intermission before he would be allowed to enter. She was confident he would arrive any minute now, smiling and full of apologies. Standing up, she turned to face the back of the theatre, ready to wave to him when he eventually appeared through the throng who were either making for one of the bars or a washroom. But when the place finally cleared, there was still no Nat, and she debated staying in her seat or struggling through the cocktail crowd in the foyer to look for him. But when the warning bell announcing that the second act was about to start, her own warning bell went off. Something bad has happened! She walked quickly up the aisle before everyone surged back to their seats.
“No, madam.” The girl, flawlessly made up and beautifully coiffed, peered at her through the half-glassed window. “The ticket is still unclaimed.”
“Is there a message for me—Maggie Spencer?”
“I’m sorry, madam. No messages for that name.” Maggie knew the girl thought she’d been stood up.
A few minutes later she was sitting behind the wheel of her car and wondering what to do. He’s had an accident! He’s in the hospital! Climbing out of the car again, she made her way back to the auditorium to use one of the public telephones, but although she let Nat’s telephone ring eight or nine times, there was still no answer. He would have got a message to me somehow—unless he just plain forgot about going to the ballet. He’s probably waiting for me at home. She reinserted the returned dime to dial her home number. But the ringing just continued. Maggie’s imagination ran on overtime as one scenario after another flashed before her.
She was lucky to find a parking space outside Nat’s apartment building. She slammed her car door then raced up the steps into the foyer, up the two flights of stairs, and inserted her key into his door. The place smelled too clean. In fact, it was so tidy that even his clothes were in his closet and not on the floor. There weren’t even any dirty dishes—and then she remembered that Nat’s cleaning lady came in on Saturdays. On the table there was a handwritten note under the saltshaker:
I’ve done fridge, put clean sheets on bed, see you next week. Doris Waters. P.S. Nancy wants you to call her back. DW.
“Nancy! That’s it! Another one of her everlasting emergencies. I’ll kill that wretched woman!” Her number was on a list pinned over the telephone.
“Nat? No, he’s not here. I left a message with his cleaning lady to tell him to call me back ASAP. Why hasn’t he called me?”
“What’s wrong this time?” Maggie, who’d got to know Nat’s ex a lot better in the past year, still found the woman irritating.
“Well, I gave up waiting and had to call a real plumber. He’s probably gone out with that George Whatshisname—Sawasky.”
George! Maggie knew his number.
“Hi, Maggie. How’s things?” It was Lucille, George’s wife, who answered.
“Is George there?”
“Afraid not. He’s been on one of those everlasting courses this week. Should be home soon, though. Can I help?”
“I’m so sorry to have bothered you, Lucille, but Nat was supposed to meet me at the theatre . . . He didn’t turn up and I’m afraid something awful has happened . . .” Suddenly she found herself blubbering. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Maggie. But you know Nat, he’ll turn up as if absolutely nothing’s happened—but that’s men for you, isn’t it?” she added with a laugh. When she didn’t get an answering laugh from Maggie, she said, “I’ll get George to call you as soon as he gets in.”
“I’m at Nat’s place. Please get him to call me here.”
• • •
A HALF HOUR later George was sitting across Nat’s kitchen table from Maggie. “Okay, when was the last time you spoke to him?”
“This morning. You see, I had to go to the caterers and then the dressmakers . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“And he left your house the same time you did?”
She nodded. “He had some errands to run before coming back here.”
“Did he say where he was going exactly?”
“No.” She picked up the scrap of paper with the message written on it and passed it over to him. “His cleaning lady come
s on Saturdays.”
“That’s a place to start. Do you know her number?”
“Doris Waters. She’s on that list over there.”
“He left before me,” Doris Waters said when George called. “Oh, dear, I hope nothing’s happened to him. He’s in a bad kind of business, you know . . . sees all sorts of criminals . . . never know when one of them will turn on you, do you? Could be lying wounded somewhere.” Doris was enjoying the prospect of relaying a horrifying crime scene to the rest of her clients.
“What time did he leave the apartment?” George asked patiently.
“Let me see . . . I’d finished the kitchen floor and done the living room. Oh, that’s right, he left just before I changed his bed. I do that each week. He looked so smart, too. Said he was taking his lady friend out.”
“And the time, Mrs. Waters?”
“About two, I’d say . . . but . . .”
“Thank you.” He replaced the receiver before she could continue her tirade. “She said he left here around two this afternoon and he was all dressed up to meet you.” He sat back at the table and then leaned toward Maggie. “Are you sure he didn’t mention where he might go before catching up with you?”
“I was running late and we sort of rushed breakfast.” She buried her face in her hands. “If only I could remember what we talked about.”
“Anything about the case—you know the Silver Unicorn Gallery, Alice Standish, Sheldon White?”
“That’s it! Sheldon White. He said he might visit him this afternoon. There was this list, you see.”
“List. What list?”
“It was only a short one,” and Maggie related what had been on the paper and where they had found it.
George glanced at his watch. “It’s a bit late but I think I should call White and see if Nat’s been there.” But the phone rang on and on.
“Do you think we should call any of the hospitals?” Maggie’s voice held a trace of the panic she was trying hard now to keep down.
“Let me check in at the station first to make sure he wasn’t in an accident.”
Maggie paced up and down the small kitchen while she waited for him to place the call.
“No report of him being involved in any accident,” George said as he replaced the receiver. “The duty sergeant is going to check the hospitals for us and call back.”
It was a long fifteen minutes before the phone rang and both Maggie and George made a lunge for it. George got to it first and listened before turning to Maggie. “He hasn’t been admitted to any of the hospitals.”
“I’m going to Sheldon White’s place.”
“But there’s no answer there . . .”
“Are you coming with me, George?”
He nodded. “I’ll drive.”
• • •
“I DON’T SEE Nat’s car,” Maggie said as they pulled up in front of Sheldon White’s house.
“We’ll check with White anyway,” George said, but Maggie was already heading up the path to the house.
It was very obvious that Sheldon White had been drinking. “What do you want?” His voice was slurred and his naturally pale face was ashen. “Why can’t you all let me alone?”
“Where’s Nat Southby?” George pushed Sheldon back into the house. The overwhelming smell of liquor and vomit made Maggie retch as she followed close behind.
“Here! Who do you think you are?” Sheldon tried to fight back but his puny attempts against George’s bulk was no contest. Staggering against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, he wrapped his arms around it. “I haven’t seen him. Go away.”
George took Sheldon by the arm and frog-marched him down the hall and into the kitchen while Maggie headed up the stairs to check the bedrooms. When she returned to the kitchen, George said, “See if there’s any coffee, Maggie.” He dumped White onto a kitchen chair. “Let’s try and get some sense out of this scumbag.”
“What about putting his head under the cold water tap?” she said unsympathetically as she searched for and found a jar of instant coffee in the pantry.
“Good idea.”
Five minutes later a wet and still protesting Sheldon slowly and reluctantly drank the now tepid brew. “I keep telling you, I don’t know where that fucking detective is. I want to go to bed.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
Maggie gazed out of the kitchen window onto the dark backyard. The wind had risen and the moon, peeping momentarily through the scudding clouds, reflected the branches of the swaying trees onto the studio windows. “Have you got a flashlight, George?”
“In the car. Why?”
“Whereabouts?”
“Glove compartment. Do you want me to get it?”
“No. Give me your keys. You keep an eye on our friend here.”
Minutes later she was walking toward the studio and playing the light over the door. The place was dark and locked up tight. Weeds, nettles, and blackberry bushes grew in abandon along each side of the studio, making it impossible for her to get close enough to see through the windows. She went back and rattled the padlock that was fastened through a metal hasp, but it was obviously new and didn’t give at all. Laying her head against the door surface, she listened for signs of life. “Nat! Are you in there?” Nothing! She had to get inside.
She returned to the kitchen. “Where’s the key to the studio?” she asked Sheldon.
“Don’t know.”
“Answer the lady,” George ordered. He grabbed Sheldon’s arm and twisted it behind him.
“You’re hurting me. I don’t know where it is.”
George gave the arm another twist. “Tell her, you little weasel.”
Sheldon started to cry. “It’s in the laundry room. On a board.”
There were several keys hanging on the board, and gathering them up, she ran back to the studio. It was difficult to hold the flashlight and try forcing each key into the lock, but at last she felt the padlock give and she was tugging open the double doors.
“Nat! Are you in here?” She advanced a step inside, sweeping the beam of the flashlight ahead of her. Nothing! “Where’s the damned light?” She played the flashlight onto the wall until she located the switch. “Oh, my God!”
Nat, gagged and tied, was lying on his side, but at least he was alive, and his eyes beseeched her to untie him. Maggie knelt down beside him and unfastened the paint rag around his head and then pulled the other rag from his mouth.
“What took you so long?” he croaked.
Sheldon had done a good tying job and it took several frantic minutes—accompanied by Nat’s coughing and cursing—to undo the knots in his beautiful silk tie and set him free.
“Where is that sonofabitch? God, I desperately need to go to the john—Help me up, Maggie—I’ll kill that little . . .” Leaning heavily on his partner, he staggered outside. He took a deep, satisfying breath before heading for the side of the studio building to pee on the blackberries. “I’m going to kill that bastard!—right after I’ve had a good stiff drink.”
“George is in the house looking after Sheldon.” She guided him to the back entrance of the house and held the door open for him. “I suggest the drink first and Sheldon second.”
“I keep telling you I don’t know who killed them.” Sheldon, still looking a mess, was at least coherent. He looked shamefaced at the bedraggled and furious Nat. “I’m sorry I tied you up, but what else could I do?”
“What were you going to do—leave me there to die?” Fortunately, Sheldon hadn’t consumed all the liquor in his house, and Nat now had a large glass of rye whisky in hand.
“I hadn’t thought that far . . .”
Nat balled his fist and loomed over the terrified Sheldon. “I’d like to . . .”
“Cool down, Nat. Mr. White is going to tell us what’s going on here, aren’t you, Mr. White?” George looked expectantly at Sheldon.
“I don’t know nothing, man. How many more times do I have to tell you . . . ?” The menace
on the faces of both of the men looming over him stopped him in mid-sentence. “I just copy the pictures I’m told to copy.”
“Sounds exactly like fraud to me,” Maggie interjected. “And who tells you to copy them?”
He gave a short bark of a laugh. “I don’t know. I just get my orders . . .”
“The lady asked you who gives the orders, Sheldon.” George spoke very quietly but Sheldon got the point, and they watched him wrestling with whether to spill the beans or try to bluff his way out of this corner.
Finally Sheldon said, “The snooty one—Forbes—that Forbes woman.”
“Tricia Forbes? But why?” Maggie asked.
“It was just before Jonathan died. She came round here one day to look over the studio and caught me copying a Khouri.”
“The impressionist?” Maggie asked. Nat and George looked blank.
Sheldon nodded. “I like doing his stuff.”
“And you sell these things?” George asked incredulously.
“I did until Forbes caught me at it.”
“Who did you sell them to?”
“People who are too dumb to tell a fake from the real thing.” He added bitterly, “Then Alice and that Forbes woman took over.”
“And they sell them for a lot more money, but now you just get a cut?”
“Thirty percent. You don’t think I make much being Alice’s dogsbody, do you?”
“And that’s what you were doing when I barged in this afternoon?” Nat said.
“That was a Saffy. Not up to a Khouri, to my mind.” He looked from George to Nat. “So what’s going to happen to me?”
“I am going to charge you with unlawful confinement and assault and battery,” George answered.
Nat looked thoughtful for a few moments. “No. As much as I’d like to put you behind bars for assault and battery,” he felt the bump on the back of his head, “I’m willing to let you go.”
“What?” George and Maggie said together.
“What’s the catch?” Sheldon asked suspiciously.
“The catch is you tell us who, apart from Tricia Forbes and Alice Standish, is in on this art scam.”
Death as a Fine Art Page 18