The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  “But no dice. No ice. I’m beginning to think he’s as cheap as Manny Part One. So I listen to him snore for a minute or two and then get up and get dressed and go into the casino to find this guy Al Cohen, who was off duty just then and standing at the bar drinking straight gin with an olive in it. They call it a martini so people won’t think you’re a lowlife drinking straight gin, but that’s all it is. So I go up to him and say ‘Hiya, Sparky. How’s tricks?’ and he brightens up and smiles real wide because he’s always had the hots for me, you know?”

  “Who could blame him?”

  “I know. Well, anyway, he offers to buy me a drink and I ask for a Manhattan on the rocks, which is not straight bourbon because you mix in sweet vermouth which makes it elegant, along with the cherry. So we get to talking, and sooner or later the subject comes around to the high-rollers table, which is where Al almost always works. So I ask him about the guys who are regulars there. Turns out it’s usually the same crew—a couple of producers, a pansy director, and this guy Watson. And Tony, of course, although he don’t always sit in, but he’s there regular enough, because these other mugs lose money like it’s going out of style.

  “And, to make a long story short, it turns out that this guy Watson is the biggest mug of them all and is into Tony for over a hundred grand, which doesn’t sound like much in Hollywood but turns out to be a big number for this guy who is living ahead of his means. Seems like the real estate business ain’t what it used to be.”

  “What is?”

  “You should know better than to ask that one, Sparky.”

  “I take it back. But you’re the exception that proves the rule.”

  “You said it. Anyway, Tony’s been stringing him along for a few weeks now, but Tony ain’t what you call a patient guy—don’t I know it—and lately when he greets this guy Watson he’s not so friendly like he used to be when Watson was paying up for his losses with real money, not markers. Even said something one time having to do with knees. Tony, I mean.”

  “As in the breaking thereof?”

  “Sure. What else could he mean? I mean he likes my knees, and the less said about that the better. Anyway, Al said the last time Watson came out to the boat and lost big was when Tony mentioned knees, and Al said Watson turned whiter than gefilte fish and said he’d come up with the money in a couple of days, but that was more than a week ago and Al said they hadn’t seen Watson since then and he was pretty sure Tony hadn’t seen the money either.”

  “Interesting. I wonder if Watson owes money to the other regular players.”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” She fired up a Lucky Strike and then smiled at me in a way that reminded me of the old expression “butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.” “So, did I do good, or what?”

  “You did good. Thanks.” I’d leave explaining the difference between adjectives and adverbs to her speech teachers. Besides, I liked the way she talked, her husky voice always tinged with teasing or innuendo. I could live with a few grammatical errors.

  “You’re welcome. And the way I see it, you owe me dinner.”

  “You’re on. What would you say to a little lobster?”

  “I’d say ‘Hello, Pee Wee, where’s your big brother?’ But if you throw in some caviar and champagne, I guess I’ll get by. But I wouldn’t count on hanky-panky afterwards. I should give it a rest, after this afternoon.”

  “I understand.”

  She affected a pout. It was nicely done.

  “Don’t be too understanding, Sparky. It hurts a girl’s feelings. Besides, I bounce back quick, so you never know.”

  Just then Hobey gave a little lurch and opened his bleary eyes. He looked at Catherine and, after focusing, smiled sweetly.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She evaluated him for a second. “You know, for a writer, he’s pretty cute.” This as an aside to me.

  “Am I in heaven?” he asked, blinking.

  “Not yet, Sparky, but if you play your cards right, you never know.” Apparently, she was starting to bounce back already. Or, more likely, she was just being herself; she couldn’t really turn it off. Anyone in pants, not counting girls in slacks, was a conquest needing to be made, if only for the sport of it.

  Hobey stared at her like a spotty freshman gazing at the prom queen.

  “Hello,” he said again.

  “Kind of short on vocabulary for a writer,” she said.

  “He gets better,” I said.

  By way of proof, he stood up a little shakily and smoothed his hair.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Hobey Baker. I’m an all-American football player. I play for the Princeton Tigers. We are undefeated.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Hobey. I’m Catherine Moore, the actress. And for your next game, I think you should wear a helmet.”

  “For you, I will. Would you like to hear the Princeton fight song?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “As you wish.” He stared at her for a few moments, trying to think of what to say next. “Then perhaps a line of poetry, something appropriate to your loveliness.”

  “That’d work better. As long as it doesn’t start ‘There was an old hermit named Dave.’”

  “As a matter of fact, I know that one, or one like it. But it would hardly be appropriate to your loveliness.”

  “You got that right,” she said.

  With a drunk’s natural lack of self-consciousness, he put one hand over his heart, extended his other arm, and reached back into his store of memories for an appropriate line.

  “‘Away! Away! For I will fly to thee, not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, but on the viewless wings of poesy, though the dull brain perplexes and retards; Already with thee! Tender is the night.’”

  “That’s good, though it doesn’t make much sense,” she said. “The way he talks, he could teach electrocution,” she said to me, grinning. But I could see that she kind of liked him. Well, he could be charming when he tried. As for her earlier remarks about Hollywood girls not going to bed with writers, I knew Catherine better than to put much stock in that. It also occurred to me that a night spent with Catherine might do Hobey a world of good, maybe dispel some of the blue devils he was half courting, half hating.

  Having finished his opening number, he gaped at her with an expression that signaled devotion mixed with shyness and lust.

  “Is it a vision, or a waking dream?” he asked, taking her hand and kissing it in the approved continental manner. “Fled is the music,” he said, gesturing to the mariachi band, who had finished “La Cucaracha” and were taking a break. “Do I wake or sleep?”

  I couldn’t be sure, but I think she actually blushed. Of course, it could have been the gin.

  “Smooth talker,” she said, looking at him through lowered lashes that looked almost real in the soft glow of the pool lights.

  So the three of us had dinner together. Although we were having lobster, Catherine refused her bib, no doubt because it interfered with our view of her breasts. Hobey refused one also, which he later regretted when he spotted his shirt and knitted tie with lobster juice and melted butter.

  I was eager to hear the finish to Hobey’s reasoning for suspecting Charles Watson, but he was too busy admiring Catherine to be much interested in art theft. Obviously, Catherine’s information about Watson’s poker losses strengthened his possible motive for stealing the Monet and selling it. What better way to raise six figures in a hurry? But Hobey was more interested in Catherine than in mystery plots, and I can’t say I blamed him. They were chatting gaily and apparently had more or less forgotten I was there.

  “So, tell me, Hobey. What kind of name is Hobey?” asked Catherine. “I never knew anyone called Hobey before.”

  “Well, formally it’s Hobart, but everyone calls me Hobey. My middle name is Amory.”

  “Fancy!”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I come from a long line of Bakers.”

  “That’s funny. S
o do I.”

  “Charming,” he said, sincerely.

  “Yeah, but is that your real name?”

  “In a very real sense, yes, it is. It is the name of my secret self. My nom de guerre romantique, so to speak. You know what Yeats said.”

  “Not offhand, but I bet you do.”

  “I will tell you. He said ‘there is for every man some one scene, some one adventure, some one picture that is the image of his secret life.’ For me, it is Hobey Baker.”

  “I get it. Your stage name.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “I’ve been trying to come up with a stage name for me, too,” she said. “I mean ‘Catherine Moore’ is all right for everyday life like going to the supermarket or the Brown Derby, but it doesn’t jump off a billboard or a theater marquee, you know? I need something a little snappier, something that’ll look good in lights.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. Well, we shall have to solve this problem. As an author, I am an expert at creating character names, if I do say so. So you have come to the right shop.”

  “Good. I could use some ideas. I don’t have any—when it comes to names, that is.”

  He stared at her for a few moments, like the proverbial boy with his nose pressed against the bakery window. She did nothing to discourage him and in fact crossed her legs slowly and meaningfully, making the silky swishing sound that was guaranteed to arouse impure thoughts in Boy Scouts, parsons, and the rest of the male race, with some exceptions, though not many.

  Then Hobey suddenly emerged from his sinful meditations.

  “I think I have it!”

  “Is it catching?” she asked, giggling, for she too had indulged deeply in the Veuve Clicquot.

  “No. I’m talking about the name. ‘Diana Hunt!’ What do you think? I think it’s very attractive. Very alluring. And allusive.”

  “Not when you remember what rhymes with Hunt.”

  “A baseball allusion?” he asked, playfully.

  “Or something.”

  They went on discussing the merits of various names, with Hobey suggesting and Catherine rejecting, for good and solid reasons, I thought. I stayed out of it while we finished the lobster and three bottles of champagne, and it was obvious to me that I was not going to get anything useful out of Hobey, especially after Catherine asked him whether he ever wrote books and not just movie scripts. I knew by now that the chance to talk about his writing was like the real Hobey Baker spotting a gaping hole in the middle of the Yale line. His eyes lit up, and it would obviously be full speed ahead until the champagne was gone.

  So I drained my glass and excused myself.

  “You leaving, Sparky?”

  “I’m a little tired,” I said. I glanced at Hobey, and he gave me a lopsided, grateful smile. It was the smile of a fraternity brother, which made me wonder which fraternity we were in. Well, I saw the tie on the doorknob and knew not to interrupt.

  “‘Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,’” he said as I started toward the Garden of Allah.

  “That’s pretty,” said Catherine, smiling sweetly and yet seductively at Hobey. “A little something of your own?”

  The next morning, I was sitting around the pool drinking coffee. I was the only one there, because it was still only nine o’clock. I was about halfway through my second cup when Catherine came bounding down the steps from Hobey’s second-floor bungalow.

  “Hiya, Sparky,” she said, gaily.

  She looked as fresh as the morning, and I told her so.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Nothing like putting a smile on another human being’s face to make you feel good all over, like you’ve done something worthwhile. You know?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You don’t have to. Just ask Hobey. Did you ever see someone sleeping and grinning at the same time? Well, I’m off to electrocution. Call me if you get lonely or you need me to do a little more private detecting. I’m available.” She laughed and made her exit with a fine silver-sequined sashay, her high heels clicking on the flagstones. It wouldn’t be long before she was a star; I was pretty sure of that. One way or the other, she was going to make it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Later that morning, I went to the office and had Della place a phony long-distance call to Charles Watson. She called him at his office.

  “Mr. Watson?” she asked, as I listened on the other line.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling from the Yankee Re-Insurance Company in Boston.” Della’s scratchy smoker’s voice made it sound like a scratchy long-distance call all right.

  “I got all the coverage I need right now,” he said, gruffly. I didn’t blame him; no one likes getting those calls.

  “Oh, I’m not calling about additional insurance.”

  “Well, what, then?” he growled.

  Della went on, professionally unfazed. “As you may or may not know, we have been approached by your existing insurance company, Prudential, to underwrite a portion of the risk on your Monet painting.”

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Well, that’s not at all surprising. These transactions are always between companies, and the risks generally get sold off on a regular basis without the client’s knowledge. Perfectly normal and standard procedure. It’s a matter of hedging, so to speak. The painting is insured for one hundred thousand dollars, and we are being asked to reinsure Prudential for exactly half that amount. Prudential will retain the balance. Your coverage is not in the least affected. In the event of a loss, Prudential would pay you the full amount and we would reimburse Prudential for our half. Do you see?”

  “So what do you want with me?”

  “Well, before we agree to any underwriting of art in a private residence, we need to have one of our inspectors evaluate the security system. Of course, Prudential did an inspection when they wrote the initial policy, but we have to do our own evaluation to satisfy our underwriters. Different companies have different security standards. You can understand that, I’m sure.”

  “I guess so. You want to have someone come out and look at my burglar alarms?”

  “Yes. If it would be convenient.”

  “What happens if you don’t approve my system? Am I still covered?”

  “I’m sure everything will check out properly,” said Della, smoothly. “Prudential’s security standards are extremely high and will satisfy our own, I’m sure. It’s more or less a formality. But necessary. Our representative, Miss Bennett, is in Los Angeles this week and would be available to stop by at your convenience. It won’t take very long, I assure you. An hour or so. Would tomorrow suit you? Just after lunch, say?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “That’s splendid.”

  “But I assume you wouldn’t mind if I call my insurance agent to make sure this is on the . . . that this is standard procedure.”

  “Oh, of course. I don’t blame you in the least. Our records show that Michael Chomsky is your agent at Prudential. I’m sure he’ll be happy to verify everything. Shall we say one o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Yes, all right, unless you hear from me to the contrary. What’s your number there?”

  Della gave him George Eliot’s private number in Boston, and then bade him a cheery good-bye.

  “Nicely done, loyal employee,” I said.

  “Piece of cake, chief.”

  The more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea of having Myrtle pose as Elizabeth Bennett. It would be far better in some ways to use Della. She would be able to improvise the role of a security expert, whereas I had my doubts about Myrtle no matter how thoroughly I briefed her. Not that Myrtle was any shrinking violet. To my knowledge, she had already sent two rapists to the infernal regions, and who knew what other skeletons were tucked in the corner of her closet. Plus there was her unquestionable beauty, of a quality to distract any man, even one who now and then liked to romp in the nude for an effeminate painter. Watson after a
ll had been married, so I had to assume he had some level of susceptibility to a beautiful woman, regardless of what other fantasies he enjoyed. So I was torn about which gal would be the better insurance agent.

  Maybe the best idea would be to send them both. I asked Della what she thought and she agreed.

  “Myrtle can distract him while I make the switch.”

  “You sure you’re. . . .”

  “Up to it? No sweat, chief. How tough can it be? Besides, if it seems like there’s a problem for some reason, we’ll abort the mission and think of something else.”

  We agreed to meet that evening to go over the plan, but until then I had a few errands to run. First I stopped at a frame shop and had the painting we called forgery number one tacked on to what the frame guy called a stretcher—basically a wooden frame that holds the canvas and fits inside the fancy frame. Fortunately, even when it was tacked to the stretcher, the painting was small enough to slide inside a regulation-size briefcase, so either Myrtle or Della would have no trouble smuggling it into the house.

  Then I went to a local print shop and had some business cards made, a set for Della under the name “Elizabeth Bennett,” and one for Myrtle as “Magda Kowalski”—a nod to my cop friend and an exotic-enough-sounding name to account for her accent.

  That evening, Perry and Della came out to the house in Malibu, where the four of us went over the plans for the next day. When I finished going over what I thought we should do and how we should do it, the two women were on board, but Perry was skeptical.

  “If you ask me,” said Perry, “you’re going about this the Chinese way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, when I was in the Navy, we stopped a few times in China and I got to see how they do things over there. One time they were trying to move a freight barge upstream in the Yangtze, which is their excuse for a river though you wouldn’t want to swim in it or eat any fish that came out of it. Anyway, they had to move this barge, so they got about ten thousand barefoot coolies together and attached them to ropes and dragged the thing upstream an inch at a time. Looked like something Cecil B. DeMille would direct. Seemed to me it’d have been a lot easier to push the barge with a tug.”