The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  I didn’t know anything about Picasso’s blue period or any other period, for that matter, but Bunny was not shy about explaining how art talk paved the way for some high class “shagging”—the British version of “schtupping.” “The secret to the business is very simple, really—it’s what you say to them afterwards. You have no idea how a few words about Matisse’s brushwork can convince them that you really are interested in them as individuals. Especially if you ask their opinions. The same talk beforehand would rightly be viewed as a mere means to an end and accepted as such. But afterwards, my boy, afterwards. That’s the key. Unless of course you are not interested in any afterwards.”

  This was after I got to know him a little better, of course. He said he avoided coeds, though. “Tempting, but apt to become clinging. Or demanding. Or now and then given to blackmail. And certain old women in the administration frown on such things.”

  “I didn’t realize there were many old women in the administration.”

  “There aren’t any, literally. Just a figure of speech. Reminds me of something someone said about the poet Housman—that he was descended from a long line of maiden aunts. Yes, all things considered, it’s much better to stick to married women. They only want a little excitement, sprinkled with culture.”

  “I’ll make it a point to read up on Picasso’s blue period.”

  “Yes, do. And don’t neglect the rose period. It has its own merits.”

  His office was like the library of a men’s club—leather furniture, well-used but not worn, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, and one window looking out over a quadrangle. The window faced west so that the afternoon sun was slanting through in yellow shafts created by the wooden blinds. Where there were no bookshelves, there were photographs of young men on sports teams, all smiling and wearing college scarves and white outfits. Above one of the shelves was a rowing scull, and hanging from a hook on the side of one shelf was a cricket bat, much scarred.

  There was a desk in front of the window, facing inward, and on the desk an Underwood typewriter with paper inserted, a notebook, a Mont Blanc fountain pen, a telephone, a pipe rack, and an index-card file. The desktop was inlayed with red leather. Like the rest of the office, the desk looked well used, well kept, well aged, and expensive. The Persian carpet was not new and in fact gave off the impression of having been trod upon in earlier times by slippered Paynims. But it was in elegant condition nonetheless. The room smelled of pipe smoke, of course. It was a good smell. I could have cheerfully lived in that room.

  When we were seated in opposing leather wing chairs, sipping coffee, he looked at me with friendly curiosity.

  “What sort of name is Feldspar?” he asked.

  “Made up.”

  “Ah. I’m not surprised. I would have pegged you as Scotch-Irish.”

  “You would have pegged correctly.”

  “Good. I like being right. I won’t ask why you travel under false colors. No doubt you have your reasons. Many people out here do.”

  “Travel under false colors, or have reasons?”

  “Both, I would say. One leads to the other. What’s your relationship with the FBI? I gather it’s not official.”

  “Well, I collaborated with them on a case involving organized crime. In Youngstown, Ohio.”

  “Very dreary, those places.”

  “In some ways, yes.” But, as I’ve said, in other ways, not so bad, if you didn’t mind the slag heaps. But there was no reason to get into that with “Bunny.”

  “I’ve traveled through some of our own factory towns in England,” he said. “It’s the sort of thing everyone should do, if only to understand D. H. Lawrence—or, should I say, if only to forgive him his literary sins. Those awful row houses, smeared with grime. Pathetic gardens in the back. Dirty streets in front. Dirty children sitting on the curbside. One wonders how people stand it. That anyone fights his way out of such places is a minor miracle. Have you read Lawrence?”

  “Lady Chatterley, yes.”

  “Of course. It’s not bad, really, if you can get by the smutty parts. Not that I’m a prude. Far from it. But it’s a jar to see some words on the page. You know, I once met a couple in Scotland, at a pheasant shoot near Loch Lomond. I was the guest of the local squire. Nice chap. Something out of Trollope or Fielding. Anyway, his gamekeeper was a typical dour Scot, complete with black beard and a scowl. And yet he was living with a very posh Englishwoman, not his wife. She cooked and cleaned their little cottage and didn’t seem to mind the constant odor of blood, manure, and wet dogs—a gamekeeper’s stock in trade. They seemed poorly matched and quite happy. Queer, isn’t it?”

  “Life imitating art.”

  “Yes, quite right, although I think that expression has become a little shopworn, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude or critical. Just a lecture point. Always doing it. Bad habit outside the lecture hall.”

  “I don’t mind. You never know where you’ll pick up something of interest.”

  “Spoken like a true detective. Have you been at it long?”

  “A year. Maybe less.”

  “That’s not very long. You must have a talent for it.”

  “Now and then I’m afraid that I do.”

  “I think I understand what you mean. Did you go to university?”

  “No. But I like to read.”

  “An autodidact. I’m impressed. Most of the great artists were, too. Not many graduated from art school. Gauguin started out as a stockbroker, if you can believe it. Well, let’s not waste any more of your time. Tell me, what is this all about?”

  “It involves a lost, or possibly stolen, Monet.”

  “Ah. Big money. How nice. Was it in a private collection or a gallery? Or museum, God forbid.”

  “It was private.”

  “And you say the painting has been stolen?”

  “That’s the way it looks, although other scenarios are possible.”

  “Yes, that’s usually the way of it.”

  “And to cover the theft, or the loss, a copy was made.”

  “So there are at least two possible paintings. I say ‘at least’ because in these cases there are sometimes several made.”

  “Yes. There may well be another floating around somewhere. But I have gotten ahold of one, and I need to know whether it’s the original or a copy.”

  “How did you come by it?”

  “Luck.”

  “Ah. Life’s most important and elusive commodity. You know what Napoleon said about it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Bravo! Well, I see you have the tube. Let’s have a look.”

  I passed the tube to him, and he carefully extracted the painting and spread it on his side table.

  “A forgery,” said Finch-Hayden after no more than a few seconds of gazing at the painting through a monocle. “Couldn’t fool a child.”

  “I see.” This was disappointing, of course, but there was more to the question. “As far as I know, there aren’t any children who need to be fooled. Only a middle-aged husband with little or no knowledge of art. Could something like this fool him?”

  “Well, since I don’t know the husband in question, I can’t say definitively. But I assume he’s wealthy, owning a Monet and all that.”

  “Yes. But it was his wife’s idea to acquire it.”

  “That’s usually the way. Most of the husbands I have met are not interested in art but are happy to stand by, checkbook in hand, looking the other way while the good lady acts the role of patron of the arts. Of all creatures great and small, middle-aged, wealthy husbands are Nature’s most perfect fools. Touching in many ways. Of course, there is the other kind—the ones who are jealous and wary and hover over their wives like Othello with a pillow. But they are in the minority. Most are a byword for gullibility. I suspect it is often a willful gullibility. ‘What the eyes do not see, the heart does not feel,’ as the Spanish say.”<
br />
  He smiled, as if to indicate that, having never been married, he was the beneficiary, rather than the victim, of this widespread gullibility, real or self-induced. “Is the wife in this case young and beautiful? They generally are.”

  “No, she’s forty-ish and dead. Emily Watson. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. It was in all the papers.”

  “I don’t read the papers. And I don’t listen to the radio news. I find them depressing. I prefer to edit reality, letting in as little bad news as possible. I find my own mind is a more than sufficient source of distress. I don’t need more. Of course, it’s too bad about the lady.”

  It didn’t sound like he was feeling very sorry for the victim. But, then, he hadn’t known her. And I sympathized with his technique of editing reality. I tried to do the same thing myself.

  “Too bad in what sense?”

  “Well, it’s an aesthetic problem, a departure from the usual scenario. You know, wealthy older man, beautiful young wife. There’s usually a younger lover in the picture somewhere. Although he needn’t always be that young.” He smiled self-referentially. “Was her death a crime of passion? Or did she die of natural causes, like La Dame aux Camellias? Forgive me if I seem flippant. One does this to keep emotions at bay.”

  “More editing reality?”

  “Yes. But it’s an annoying English trait, I realize.”

  That seemed odd to me. He hadn’t known the woman, so why should there be any emotion to be kept at bay? Of course, he was an Englishman. Perhaps that explained it. Still. . . .

  “I don’t know about passion,” I said. “But it certainly was a crime. She died from a twenty-two-caliber bullet through the temple.”

  “I see. Hardly natural causes.” He became serious now. “Murdered?”

  “Possibly. Suicide hasn’t been ruled out. There was also another shooting. The victim was a younger man. . . .”

  “Ah. The plot thickens—according to form.”

  “Yes, this part of the story does seem to run true to form. The younger man was not only Mrs. Watson’s lover but also a painter. That is confidential, for the time being at least—that he was her lover, I mean.”

  “Yes, I supposed as much. I assume this forgery has something to do with the case.”

  “Something. We’re not sure what, exactly. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Naturally you’ve considered the possibility that the young lover in this case was the forger.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And what’s your role in the case, if I may ask? You’re not officially with the police or the FBI.”

  “No. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the victim the day before she died, and I’m working with the police to look into the way this painting might have a bearing on the case. They’re hoping it has no relationship at all and that the two shootings were a simple matter of a lover’s tiff resulting in one murder and one suicide.”

  “That the theft of the painting is a separate matter entirely. Yes. Very clean. Very simple.”

  “As for the FBI, I worked with them on that other case, so they’re willing to vouch for me.”

  “I know. I checked before agreeing to see you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I would have done the same thing.”

  “Yes. A mere precaution.”

  “Somewhere there’s a genuine Monet floating around. I was hoping this was it, of course. But I figured that would be too good to be true.”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Whoever did this has talent; I won’t deny that. But there is a vast difference between talent and genius. One is a Model T, the other a Bugatti. Both run on petrol, but the similarities end there. I should know. I have talent, but nothing beyond, I’m afraid. I’m talking about my own painting, you understand.”

  “Better than nothing. To be talented, I mean.”

  “Yes, of course. Still, when one spends one’s life teaching people about the elements of genius, one becomes all that much more aware of one’s own shortcomings. Now and then it can be depressing. You’ll notice I don’t have any of my paintings here in the office. I can’t stand to look at them for very long.”

  “You seem to have done all right, otherwise,” I said, gesturing to the fine fixtures of his office.

  “Well, yes. No doubt. As an artist I have discipline, ability, and energy, and I have that single prerequisite to a happy career in the arts—a reliable private income. Still, I know I’ll never produce anything so good as the original of this painting.”

  “I assume copying a masterpiece is significantly easier than creating one.”

  “Of course. You have the detailed blueprint in front of you.”

  “I don’t suppose you recognize anything about this forgery that might suggest who did it.”

  “Nothing at all, I’m afraid. It could be any of a thousand artists, assuming the deceased Lothario did not do it. There are some well-known master forgers loose in the world, mostly in Europe. But I doubt it was one of those. They would have done a better job.”

  “If I showed you examples of other paintings by some artists, original paintings, could you detect any similarities of technique. . . ?”

  “That might enable me to deduce that the same man painted both? I doubt it. After all, the forger was trying to copy Monet’s technique, not adapt his own.”

  “I see.”

  “But I’d be willing to have a go at it, if you like.”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Professor.”

  “Call me Bunny, if you like. I know it takes a little getting used to.”

  “All right . . . Bunny.”

  “And what shall I call you? Surely not Bruno.”

  “Well, my real name is Thomas Parke D’Invilliers, so I guess you could call me Tom.”

  He looked at me and smiled knowingly.

  “Thomas Parke D’Invilliers, eh? Interesting name. I have the feeling that I’ve run across it before, somewhere. Is that possible, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.” From the amused look in his eye, I knew I had put my foot in it.

  “Yes. I’m sure I’ve seen it,” he said. “I know! It’s quoted as an epigraph to a novel. The Great Gatsby. Do you know it?”

  “Vaguely. I read it when it came out a few years ago.”

  “No one reads it these days, of course. But I rather like it. A little overwrought in places, but not disastrously so. Now, how does that epigraph go?” He got up and started looking through his bookshelves, and in a few moments found the volume he was looking for. “Here it is. The Great Gatsby. And the epigraph reads: Then wear the gold hat if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry ‘Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!’ Words to live by, eh?”

  “I suppose so, in one sense.”

  “The author is identified as Thomas Parke D’Invilliers. That’s you! Did you give that line to the author, what’s his name—Fitzgerald?”

  “No. Of course not. It’s obviously a coincidence. I remember wondering about it when I first saw it.”

  “Yes. Anyone would wonder about that. Of course, D’Invilliers is a common name, to say nothing of Thomas and Parke. It’s easy to see how the coincidence could occur.”

  I have to admit I could feel my face getting red.

  “No need for blushes, Tom,” he said, with a friendly smile. “We all have our little secrets. The human heart has hidden treasures, in secret kept, in silence sealed. That’s Charlotte Brontë. Know her?”

  “No, we’ve never met,” I said, trying to regain a straight face. “Does she live around here?”

  He laughed at the joke, politely.

  “Well, we will peel the onion of your various identities until some day we may perhaps arrive at your real name. Not that it matters. After all, ‘what’s in a name?’”

  “Four roses would smell as swe
et.”

  “Good God. Surely you don’t drink that vile stuff.”

  “Only when there’s nothing else.”

  “Well, you must come to my place for dinner some evening. I can give you something better.”

  “Thanks. I’d like that.” That was true. Bunny had charm to spare, and it was so natural that it worked even on someone like me. Besides, he was interesting and knew things that I didn’t know. Getting to know him better would be fun.

  “Bring someone along if you like. I intend to have company too, and a foursome is always more pleasant.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Myrtle would like him too, and there was something about him that said he would never poach on a friend’s territory. It was not “the done thing.”

  “Good. That’s settled then. I’ll call your office with date and time. Now, be so kind as to take some of these damned macaroons with you, will you? My dog will never know, and besides he’s getting much too fat.”

  It was getting close to cocktail hour by the time I got to my car and wound my way back to the Ocean Highway. I turned north into the traffic and headed for Malibu. A cold Stella Artois, a swim, and a shower, followed by fresh fish grilled on the beach, some chilled wine, and an evening with Myrtle all added up to a hard-to-beat program.

  When I pulled close to her driveway, I saw the red-and-gray Duesenberg parked outside her door. It had the look of having been there for a while. I don’t mind admitting to a sudden pang of jealousy. Or maybe it was sadness. Certainly I felt a little deflated. I waited a few minutes to see if that guy, I’d forgotten his name, was just leaving. Maybe he was dropping her off after acting class. Then I waited a few more minutes, and still nothing seemed to be stirring. After a while, I noticed that the wait had stretched to almost half an hour.

  Life seems to come in half-hour chunks, I thought—both the good and the bad. This was one of the bad chunks. I had no claims on her, of course. I had even told her that some day she would meet the man of her dreams. Yes, I had told her all that, but that doesn’t mean I meant it.