by Terry Mort
“This is the problem?”
“Yes. He has disappeared, and I want him found.”
“Can you tell me why?”
She hesitated. There usually are these hesitations at this stage of a case.
“Ethel said you were trustworthy and could keep a confidence.”
“I wouldn’t be in business very long if I couldn’t.”
“You seem very young.”
“Meaning that I haven’t been in the business all that long?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m older than I look. And if it’s any comfort to you, I used to be with the FBI.” This was not strictly true, but true enough.
“Why did you leave?”
“Too much bureaucracy.”
That seemed to satisfy her. But she was still hesitant, not about me so much, but about her own story. You can always lie to yourself when you tell yourself your story, but it’s harder when you tell it to a stranger.
She struggled with herself for another moment or two but then came out with it.
“His name is Wilbur Hanson, and he stole something from me and disappeared. I want him found and I want my property back.”
“What did he steal?”
“A painting. A priceless Monet. In fact, that very Monet in the photograph.”
I looked at the photograph again. I didn’t know much about Monet, but I did know he brought in big numbers at the art auctions. That sort of thing was in the papers.
“Why not go to the police?” The answer was obvious, but I still had to make sure.
She looked at me, wondering if I was being dense or coy.
“Surely you will not be surprised to hear that there was something between us.”
“Beyond an appreciation of Monet?”
“Yes.”
“So, in plain words, you were lovers.”
“Yes.”
“Does your husband have any suspicions?”
She sniffed and tossed her expensive hair. “No. He’s quite oblivious.” The level of contempt was pretty high.
“Which means involving the police would complicate matters at home.”
“Yes. My husband knows next to nothing . . . about art. When Wilbur stole the painting, he replaced it with a copy. I didn’t notice it at first. It was a very good copy. My husband could stare at it until the moon is blue and never know it’s a forgery. But if the police are called in. . . .”
“The jig will be up. I understand. But couldn’t you just report it as a straight-out theft without mentioning any of the . . . context?”
“Wilbur has threatened to reveal everything if I report him to the police. Or if he’s ever caught.”
“Yes. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Oh, yes, I believe him. There’s not much doubt he’d sing like the Rhythm Boys if the cops ever nabbed him. Was the painting insured for its full value?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Mrs. Watson, the simplest way out of this problem would be to report the theft to the insurance company, collect your settlement, and forget the whole thing, while continuing to enjoy the copy. It would be perfectly honest, because the painting was in fact stolen. The only wrinkle in this story is that you happen to know who took it. But that is something you can keep to yourself. Your husband need never know anything other than you’d been robbed and restitution had been made. Apparently, he wouldn’t care one way or the other about the painting. Of course, Wilbur would get away with the crime, which would be a shame, but your reputation and relationships would be protected. As well as your bank account.”
“I’ve thought of that, of course.”
“And?”
I could see the blood rushing to her face, and her expression changed so that she suddenly looked less like a pleasant Amelia Earhart and more like some evil stepmother in a scary children’s book.
“I want the bastard found and caught.”
So it wasn’t the painting so much. It was “Hell hath no fury,” with a side order of Medea.
I stared at her for a moment while she digested the fact that I understood her real motivation and the fact that she didn’t give a damn whether I did or not.
“What happens if I do track him down?”
“That’s my business. Finding him is yours, if you think you’re up to the job.”
“I think I can handle it. Of course, he could be anywhere in the world.”
“I don’t care where he is or how long it takes.”
At twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses, this was the kind of client to have.
“May I keep this picture?”
“Yes. And when you’re finished with it . . . burn it.”
When she left after writing a check for two hundred fifty dollars, it occurred to me that this arrangement could end badly. I didn’t like the combination of jealous rage and pearl-handled automatics, even a small caliber. I felt like a pointer sniffing out the quail. What if I found the guy, located him, and she said thank you very much just before she emptied the magazine into his midsection? If it happened, how was I supposed to feel about that? On the other hand, I did like her two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar retainer check. This is a business that requires conscious compromises.
My problem was solved for me the next morning when the headline in the papers said: SOCIETY MURDER/SUICIDE. EMILY WATSON SHOOTS INTRUDER, THEN TURNS GUN ON HERSELF. BEL AIR IS BUZZING. The rest of the copy contained the standard amount of lurid details. The victim, identified as “Wilbur Hanson, artist,” had needed three shots to the abdomen. Emily had only needed one to the side of the head.
Things happen, don’t they? I had deposited her check, but the job was over before it started. I’d been hired to find the immediate whereabouts of the boyfriend. That was easy. He was lying on a stainless-steel gurney in the county morgue, draining. I imagine she was there too, in a similar situation. I wondered whether I should call her husband and offer to return the money. I wouldn’t have minded, but that would needlessly add to his shock and grief. Why did he have to know that she had hired a private dick to track this gigolo down? This way, he could maybe tell himself that she had defended her home and honor against a well-dressed intruder. A Raffles sort of gentleman burglar.
Of course, he might wonder why she had felt compelled to shoot herself, but maybe he could put it down to shock or even accident. As long as he didn’t know the truth, he could tell himself anything that would be a barricade against obvious suspicions. On the other hand, I figured I owed her or someone something for the money, so I decided to call the boys at homicide and tell them what I knew. As far as the murder/suicide was concerned, I didn’t know much, except the motive. But I did know there was a “priceless Monet”—her words—floating around somewhere. That now belonged to her husband, and the fact that he couldn’t tell a real Monet from a Li’l Abner cartoon didn’t change the fact that he had been robbed by some on-the-make sleazeball with the unwitting assistance of a wife with a bad case of the hots. Her husband deserved to get his property back.
I did wonder, though—what did “priceless” mean? A hundred thousand? Maybe even more. I wondered if the boyfriend had already disposed of the picture on the black market; I assumed there was a black market for art somewhere. Or maybe he had been holding on to it for some reason known only to himself.
But why had he come back to her house? He must have known she’d be in a bad mood, and he also must have known she carried that pistol. Bad moods and pistols are a combination anyone with an ounce of sense wants to avoid. Maybe he had had second thoughts about the theft; maybe he was returning the picture, smiling a sheepish smile and hoping to patch things up with the lady; maybe that picture now hanging above the mantel was genuine. Maybe he’d gone there thinking no one was home and replaced the fake with the real thing, at which point she’d arrived, emitting fumes of jealousy, and let him have it three times and then, distraught, ruined her coiffure wi
th a .22 slug. But if that was what had happened, there was an extra painting to be accounted for, whether fake or original. It’s possible he hadn’t had time to replace the fake before she arrived in a murderous mood.
I called a guy I knew at homicide. He was one of the newer breed of L.A. cops—a college grad who preferred scientific interrogation methods and would only resort to a blackjack if the scientific methods didn’t work.
“Kowalski,” he said when he picked up.
“Hi, Ed,” I said. “It’s . . . Bruno Feldspar.” Again I had trouble getting the name out.
“Hello . . . Bruno. How’s life?”
“Okay.”
“By the way, I know that can’t be your real name. What kind of parents would name a kid Bruno?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Feldspar.”
“Right.”
“Would I lie?”
“Doesn’t everyone? What’s on your mind . . . Bruno?”
“Are you involved in the Emily Watson case?”
“I might be. Are you?”
“I was. Briefly.”
“Really? And?”
“She came to my office yesterday and asked me to track down the guy who ended up with the leaky organs.”
“Let me guess why.”
“You’d be right.”
“So you’re telling me this was no intruder, but a regular visitor. The classic crime of passion.”
“Yep.”
“The papers are going to love this.”
“You might consider keeping it under your hat for a while, Ed. There’s an unsuspecting husband to consider.”
“There usually is.”
“Well, don’t you have any feeling for the guy? He’s grieving. Why add to his troubles?”
“What makes you think he’s grieving? And besides, if he’s so clueless as to think something other than the obvious, maybe it’s time he wised up. But it’s out of my hands, ultimately. The news boys will have this story sooner rather than later. What’s your angle?”
“I don’t have an angle. At least I don’t know for sure. Just answer me one question.”
“In exchange for?”
“What I know about the relationship between the dead guy and the dead woman.”
“All right. Shoot.”
“Was there an extra painting somewhere at the scene of the crime—a copy of the painting over the mantel, lying around, near the body, maybe? Or leaning against the wall? Even something rolled up somewhere?”
“No. Not that I saw. And there was squat in the after-action report.”
Swell.
“So what’s your story?” he asked.
“Here’s the deal as far as I know it. The late Mrs. Watson was keeping company with this guy Wilbur Hanson. I have a photo of him that she gave me.”
“I already know what he looks like, although I’m guessing he looks better in the picture than when I saw him. And just a word of advice—if you’re going to be a private dick out here, you’d better find a more colorful way of saying ‘keeping company.’ Otherwise, people’ll think you’re some sort of fairy.”
“Fine. I’ll try to clean it up. How’s this—she was banging the guy, and it was the classic story of the older woman and the younger man who was only putting up with her sagging charms and tinted hair because he figured there was something in it down the road. She had a bad case of the hots, and he had a bad case of wanting to get rich.”
“That’s more like it.”
“The prize in this case was a painting. A Monet. Ever hear of the guy?”
“There’s a black dude named Maurice Monay doing three-card monte on Figueroa, but I doubt it’s the same one.”
“No, this one’s a French artist whose paintings go for six figures.”
“Six figures. Hard to believe anyone would pay that for a picture of anything. Unless it was a nude. Was it?”
“No. A bunch of flowers.”
“I swear the human race gets dumber by the hour. Anyway. . . .”
“So anyway, this guy Hanson steals the Monet from the aforementioned Emily Watson and replaces it with a copy. And, as is usual in such cases, she goes over the edge when she realizes she’s been played for a sucker. When Hanson shows up again, she lets him have it and, then, after a moment of emotional turmoil and romantic despair, turns the gun on herself. Full stop.”
“Romantic despair?”
“Maybe there’s a better way to express it. Hysteria, maybe. Shock. Maybe even accident. What do you know about Hanson?”
“Not much. He doesn’t seem to have any next of kin that we can find. He’s just another one of these pretty boys who come to this town. How’s the painting figure into this?”
“Who knows? I thought he might be trying to return it, maybe mend some broken fences. Or maybe he got cold feet and realized he wasn’t cut out for the art underworld.”
“What about the husband?”
“Clueless, according to his wife.”
“About the boyfriend or the stolen painting?”
“Both. Out of curiosity, does he have an alibi?”
“Seems to. He was gambling out on the Lucky Lady pretty much all through the day and most of the night. Plenty of witnesses saw him. He called the cops when he got home. The boys said he was pretty shook up.”
“I’ll bet. But I keep wondering why Hanson came to the house that night. I keep thinking he was trying to return the original and get back on the side of the angels.”
“No one in this town is on the side of the angels. Our name is a cosmic joke. But I see your point. If he was trying to make good, the other painting, whether real or copy, would be soaking up some gigolo blood when we got there.”
“That was the idea.”
“Good idea, but no cigar. There was plenty of blood, but it was being soaked up by a Persian carpet. The only painting was hanging above the mantel—not that I paid much attention to it. I’m looking at the crime-scene photos now, and there’s definitely a picture above the mantel. But there’s no second painting anywhere. Sorry.”
“Hmmm. Maybe Wilbur stashed the painting somewhere safe and went to Emily’s house to beg for forgiveness.”
“Promising to return the painting later?”
“Right.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. Most likely we’ll never know. But what do you want out of this?”
“The lady in question gave me a ten-day retainer. I’d like to earn some of it, anyway. Would you have any objections if I looked into the art-forgery business? It’s a side story to the murder/suicide, which as you’ve said is pretty straightforward—thanks to my information. I’d like to be able to set the husband right as far as his property is concerned.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I thought I’d take a look at Hanson’s place. Maybe he has the thing hidden there.”
“Real or the forgery?”
“Who knows? Could be either one. If I can’t find anything there, I guess I’ll get ahold of the husband and tell him his wife thought there was something wrong about the painting and that she suspected it had been stolen and replaced with a forgery. She came to me to make a discreet inquiry, which will cover her if her husband looks over her cancelled checks. And it will cover her till the adultery story breaks—if it breaks.”
“Oh, it’ll break sooner or later.”
“I imagine. But once I broach the idea of a forgery, he can hire an expert and take it from there. If the one he’s got now is genuine, he can sit back and enjoy. Or sell it. If it’s a fake, he can call the insurance company and get his money back. All neat and unconnected to the murder. Even when the adultery story comes out, the art angle doesn’t really matter.”
“It matters a little, but I take your point. It complicates something that otherwise appears pretty straightforward. Simple crime of passion. And it’s better for us if it seems straightforward. Complications make paperwork. Better to have a good, clean story than one that’s messed up with truth. So go ahead
. Keep me informed.”
“I assume you’ve checked Wilbur’s apartment.”
“Yes. It’s got the standard crime-scene yellow tape across the door.”
“I won’t disturb anything.”
“Okay. I’m guessing you can figure out a way of getting in.”
“Yes. It’s Lesson Two in the Private Detective Correspondence School.”
“Anyone asks you what you’re doing, have them call me. But just remember when you’re poking around—it’s no trouble putting a private dick out of business, if we don’t like what he’s doing and how he’s doing it. If you find something, anything, I want to know about it. And if by chance you should happen to find the original, don’t forget who it belongs to.”
“I’ll remember.” I thought about correcting his use of “who,” but decided against it. Almost nobody uses “whom” anymore.
“Stay in touch,” he said and hung up.
I’m not sure I liked that part about putting somebody out of business. But maybe he was just practicing his tough-guy act. As a college graduate, he had to be especially hard-assed. The other cops were suspicious of anyone who wore glasses and was good at anything beyond shaking down a suspect, accepting cash in an envelope, and lighting a match with a thumbnail.
This guy Hanson lived in one of the countless semi-Spanish two-story apartment buildings. This one was U-shaped with a pool in the middle. It was on a side street in Santa Monica. That was convenient for me, because I was planning to meet Perry later that evening, hoping he would have some interesting news about Catherine Moore for me.
I parked on the street and walked a block or so to the building, known as the Hanging Gardens Apartments. It wasn’t hard to locate Hanson’s place, because of the yellow crime-scene tape across the door. There were a few aspiring starlets sitting around the pool, and they watched me as I went up the stairs to the second floor. I was wearing my fedora and so looked official, and I paid no attention to them, but I could hear them whispering something. I got out the piece of plastic that all junior G-men learn to carry and slipped it through the doorjamb and opened the lock. I ducked under the yellow tape, went in, and flipped on the light.