by Joan Smith
“You were crazy enough about it last night to break into her shop. Why didn’t you invite me along?”
“I’d imposed enough on your good nature. Make that so-so nature. Why didn’t you invite me?”
He gave me a laughing look. “I wanted to outdo you, too. You never mentioned Jerome before.”
“Jerome and I go way back—he’s a good friend.”
“Oh, the apples you’ve stolen together! The school play where he was Saint Joseph and you the Virgin Mary, dropping the baby doll back in kindergarten. It’s unhealthy, living in the past, Audrey.”
Not knowing what other items Jerome might have blabbed about in the car, I cut this line short. “What did you think when you saw the lock had been taken off Drew’s door last night? Weren’t you afraid to go in?”
“I had a strong feeling it would be you. Who else would be interested in that particular place, at that particular time? The beat-up Volkswagen convinced me. Only you would go breaking and entering, planning your getaway in a tin can thirty years old.”
“At least we had wheels. It’s better than relying on a taxi.”
Drew was with another customer when we entered. She had her purse in her hand, and was leading him to the door, obviously preparing to run herself. She didn’t look frightened; more angry, or frustrated. So she’d discovered the break-in then, and that the painting was gone then.
“Mr. O’Casey, have you decided to buy another of my paintings while you’re passing through New York?” she asked ironically. Her topaz eyes had already taken note of the two paintings Brad carried, and the loose condition of their wrappings.
He waited till the other man left before he spoke, dropping the brogue now. “No, I’m dissatisfied with the one I bought this morning.”
“Really! What seems to be the trouble?” Odd as it was, she seemed only curious, not afraid.
Brad put the Matisse on the counter and unfolded the paper. “It’s this signature that bothers me,” he said, and pointed to the word Rosalie. “And of course the fact that it’s not a genuine Matisse.”
Drew glanced at it, but her eyes soon strayed to the other painting, still in its cover. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?” she asked.
“My friend—you must know Art Whitdale at the Met—discovered Rosalie Hart’s signature lurking here under the other name. He feels that Matisse was added very recently—something about the state of pigment. He’s ready to say so in court. You’ve had the thing two years, I think you said? Isn’t that right, Miss Andrews? You can verify that claim?” I nodded.
Drew looked coolly from Brad to me. “What makes you think it’s Rosalie Hart’s signature? It only says Rosalie. It could be anyone.”
“It’s Rosalie Hart’s. My friend here—actually her name is Miss Dane—was a friend of Rosalie’s.”
“Audrey Dane!” Drew exclaimed, and looked at me, finally taking more than a glance. “So that’s who you are! I don’t have to ask what’s in the other parcel, do I? It’s the nude she gave you.”
“That’s right, the one you had stolen from my cottage,” I told her.
Her bold topaz eyes stared into mine, with a look as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s. She wasn’t quite smiling, but fear made up no part of her expression. “All right, let’s talk. We’ll be more comfortable in my office,” she said, and led us to it. Brad picked up the paintings and brought them along.
“I noticed you’ve lost your accent, Mr. O’Casey,” Drew mentioned. “Just where do you fit into the picture? As if I didn’t know.”
“You can consider me an interested party. Mostly I’m interested to know why you had the nude stolen.”
“Stolen?” she asked, and laughed lightly. “Prove it. I bought it from a man who came in off the street a few days go. If it’s a forgery, I don’t want it. You can keep it, Miss Dane. I’ll give you back your check for the Matisse, Mr. O’Casey; you give me the painting, and we’re square.” She took the check from her purse and handed it to him.
“That’ll do for starters,” he said, and pocketed it. For a nervous minute, we all three looked uncertainly at each other. It was Brad who broke the silence. “The polka dot nude will make a great cover for your biography, Audrey. Not many people know what a great artist Rosalie was. How she worked with Braque, Rouault, and Picasso—all those artists in France. I wonder what happened to all her pictures. You wouldn’t have any idea, Miss Taylor?”
“None,” she said airily. “I hadn’t heard Rosalie Hart was an artist. You interviewed her, Miss Dane. Did she say anything about her paintings?”
“Oh yes,” I answered mysteriously.
“We took the idea some smart businesswoman got hold of them and sold them as originals,” Brad said. “Fixed up the signature, shuffled them out of the country to some little-traveled corner of the world—like Ireland.”
Drew’s smile stretched wider. “Is that what you thought? I wish you luck in proving it, Mr. O’Casey.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard. The suspect’s books can be seized and examined, some of the purchasers contacted. A search warrant to take the paintings that presently decorate her own apartment . . ."
“It’s not against the law to hang anything I want on my own walls. I could hang a copy of The Last Supper and sign it da Vinci without being arrested. And do you really suppose the seller was fool enough to keep records? I think it more likely she—or he—did it all under the table,” Drew said. “No one got hurt in the transaction. The buyers got a beautiful, valuable work of art, at a bargain price. Unauthenticated, of course, which limits their trying to sell it. They bought for their own enjoyment, and could afford it. And if you think they’ll help you prove their bargain is a forgery, think again. No widows or orphans were fleeced in the process—so what’s your problem?”
“One widow was robbed—Rosalie Hart.”
Drew’s face twisted into a bitter parody of a smile. “She was loaded. My mother was a slave to her for years, putting up with treatment no one else would take in these days.”
“My mother”—Drew was saying Lorraine was her mother. Had Rosalie never told her the truth then, or was she trying to con us?
“She wasn’t indentured,” Brad pointed out. “She was free to go.”
“Go where? Rosalie was her life.”
“She could have come to you,” Brad said. “Or did your mother have to stay with Rosalie to get the paintings from her? You’ve been defrauding Rosalie’s estate for three years."
“Rosalie’s estate was left to my mother, who is getting her fair share from the pictures. Don’t be too sure Rosalie didn’t have a hand in it too. At least I’ll say so, if anyone is foolish enough to take it to court. Who can argue with a corpse?” she asked blandly. This struck me as a callous way to talk about her own mother.
“She never received a cent from your gallery!” Brad accused.
“How do you know, Mr. O’Casey?” Drew asked.
Brad blushed; Drew frowned, and I said, “What’s going on here? I know perfectly well you’re Rosalie’s daughter, and I think it’s disgusting . . ."
Drew threw her head back and laughed, a real, genuine belly laugh. “This is rich!” she said. “You’re writing Rosalie’s biography, and you don’t know a damned thing about her. You be sure to print that I’m Rosalie’s daughter, Miss Dane. I’d love to sue your publisher for a couple of million.”
“Brad, what’s—” I stopped, hardly knowing what question to ask from the many that assailed me.
Brad and Drew were locked in a battle of eyes, staring at each other with curious determination. Again it was Brad who spoke. "Whatever the setup was, it’s over. No more selling Rosalie’s works as forged masterpieces.”
“I never sold a thing as an authenticated original. Anyway, they’re gone. What’s left are the few you saw in my apartment.”
“Fine, we’ll take them, and call it settled,” Brad said. “The word is out in the artistic community what kind of an operation you’re runni
ng. You close shop, and that’ll be the end of it.”
"Very well, Mr. O'Malley."
“The name’s O’Casey,” Brad smiled.
“Sure, and mine’s Shirley Temple. I’ll send the paintings to Central Park West, but you don’t broadcast what went on here, and that includes what you write in the book, Miss Dane.”
Mysteries collided with enigmas in my mind. How did Drew know Brad’s name, and his address? Why did she act as though she were bargaining from strength, when she didn’t have a leg to stand on? Why wasn’t she afraid of us, and why wasn’t Brad going after her harder?
“The book’s about Rosalie, not a painting fraud,” Brad said. “Come on, Audrey, let’s get out of here. I don’t like the atmosphere.”
“It was fine before you came in, Mr. O’Malley,” Drew said. She lifted a pack of cigarettes and slowly lit one, with an insolent stare as we gathered up our paintings to leave.
CHAPTER 17
“How did she know who you are, and where you live?” I demanded, as we hurried to the parking lot.
“She’s part witch.”
“She must have heard Hume Mason was doing a book too,” I reasoned. “How many people know Mason’s real name anyway?”
With his eyes firmly riveted on the car, he replied, “Not many, and if Drew Taylor thinks I'm Mason, she isn’t one of the select circle who knows.”
“What do you mean, if she thinks you’re Mason. You are Mason!”
“We’ll do IDs later, okay?” he said brusquely, while he strode on his long legs to the car. “Did we let her off too easily?”
“Now, Brad. We’ll do IDs now.”
“That’s a sit-down-and-have-a-drink story, Audrey. Trust me.”
A busy parking lot seemed a poor spot to sit down and have a drink. “Okay, but you’re not going to wiggle out of it this time.”
“So, did we let her off too easily?” he repeated.
I allowed myself to be temporarily detoured to this topic. “We couldn’t prove anything. Between her not keeping records and not authenticating the paintings, it’d be impossible to prove fraud. And as she said, her victims would be the last ones to help—they want to believe they have genuine masterpieces.”
“I don’t feel too sorry for them. They got what they paid for—famous names to hang on the wall and impress their friends.”
“Some people are so interested in appearances,” I agreed, slyly innocent, as we climbed into the Benz.
“Don’t start on me, Audrey. It was her giving Rosalie a black eye that bothered me most. There’d be no way to prove Rosalie wasn’t a part of the scheme.”
“Maybe she was.”
“No, she wasn’t.” A muscle at the side of his jaw quivered. Something was upsetting him, either the conversation, or the terrible job he was doing of getting the car into gear.
“How would you know? I didn’t think she had a clue myself. She was growing senile. All she remembered was the movies, and the men, and the wild affairs. She just had that one painting of her own, in her bedroom. I wonder why she wanted me to have it.”
“Didn’t she say?”
“Well, she’d already told me about her painting, and that she was pretty good. I guess I didn’t look convinced, so she showed it to me. I oohed and ahed, and she handed it over. Generous. She must have known she didn’t have long to live. Maybe she wanted me to write nice things about her art, and considered the painting a bribe. I’m just conjecturing.”
“Did Lorraine Taylor object?”
“She didn’t know. She was upstairs that day, having a rest. She might have objected after I left, but I wasn’t aware of it. Maybe I will use the polka dot nude for a cover. I didn’t agree not to—I just didn’t disagree when Drew laid down the law. What do you think, Brad?”
“The dead deserve some privacy, and if this story gets out, Rosalie will be smeared with it. It’s not much of a part of her life.”
“It does detract from her real accomplishments—her movies.”
“We have some unfinished business to discuss. I’m driving us back to my place, okay?” Brad said. I took it for a rhetorical question, as we were already headed in that direction.
“Mason’s alter ego, you mean? Or should I say O’Malley’s alter ego?”
“Since you’re in a better mood today, I hoped we might make up for lost time last night. Jerome got in the way.”
“Your bleeding eyes look as if you didn’t waste much time last night. Didn’t you call Rosalie Wildewood after all?”
“Jerome fed me a bottle of homemade wine. We talked till three or four. I know all your secrets now, Aud.”
This came as a hard blow. Jerome knows me better than is comfortable. Many an afternoon he psychoanalyzed me in the college coffee shop, explaining why I shouldn’t be jealous of Helen. When Helen got engaged to Garth, he was the one who dragged out all the old clichés about plenty of fish in the sea.
“That nut? He doesn’t know a neurosis from a neutron.”
“He knows a lot about kid sisters, and inferiority complexes.”
I bet he didn’t know how I felt right now, as though my skin had been stripped off, and I stood with my raw nerve endings exposed. My old misgivings stormed over me when we entered the marble hallways, with Zeus towering at the end of it. I sat on the edge of the suede sofa, while Brad disposed of the paintings, before he joined me.
“I can see you’re not exactly crazy about my place. What is it that turns you off?” he asked frankly.
“It’s lovely. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s as nice as I can make it. To tell the truth, I was hoping to bowl you over with it, but you grew a two-inch shell the minute you set foot in the door yesterday. And it’s happening again.” He stared hard, trying to read the answer on my stiffening face.
“I just hadn’t pictured you living in a place like this.” I glanced at the art-strewn walls. “You’re not—I don’t know. You’re just not what I thought you were. You seem like a stranger here.” I was dissatisfied with this trite speech, and so was Brad.
“It took me a while to get used to having money,” he admitted, as his eyes followed mine around the room. “I didn’t always live like this, but I always wanted to. I still do—my visit chez Simcoe convinced me of it. I used to live in a place like that when I was a professor. When my books started to earn a lot of money, I decided to spend it. Why not? I didn’t have anyone to leave it to. I guess you knew my wife and son were fabrications, to give me an excuse to go to Rosalie’s funeral.” My shell began to soften. “Surely I don’t have to apologize for making a success of my career, and enjoying the rewards? Won’t you move up, when you make it?”
“I’ll never make it this big. It’s only trash that sells so well. Trash and sex. I can’t understand how a professor of literature could lower himself,” I challenged. As he defended himself against this charge, I began to doubt his disavowal regarding Mason.
He waved a dismissing hand. “Professors of literature have to eat, too. I happen to like steak and wine. I prefer Central Park West to a walk-up in some dark alley. I also like having my audience numbered in millions, instead of hundreds. The Art of Eliot sold nine hundred and seven copies, six hundred in the college where it was put on the curriculum for two years. When I left, the next professor put his book on the syllabus. In my opinion, forcing kids to buy your book is worse cheating than doing an honest journeyman’s job of work and letting the customer make his own free choice. I am what I am, and I like doing what I do. If you can’t accept that . . .“ He hunched his shoulders indifferently, but his eyes still looked concerned. The crease between his brows deepened, giving him an angry air.
“It’s your business if you want a career of literary prostitution,” I said magnanimously.
“As opposed to the sort of literary worship you carry on! Rummaging around in other people’s lives, ferreting out their secrets, making a précis of their diaries and letters.”
“
Look who’s talking!” I objected, voice rising several decibels. “At least I have their permission, and I don’t pretend I was there in the room when Rosalie seduced her lovers, panting right along, with the heaving bosoms and shuddering loins. God, what rubbish! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I haven’t been hauled into court for obscenity yet. Bosoms do heave, Audrey; loins shudder, like it or not. The days of trembling virgins are behind us. If you realized it you might make a decent living yourself, instead of being jealous and spiteful because I have.” Brad’s voice rose above mine in volume.
“I’m not jealous of this furniture-store window. If you’re so insecure you have to bolster your ego with foreign cars and a fancy address, that’s your problem.”
“You’re so insecure you won’t even compete. How do you know you couldn’t win, Audrey? You probably could have kept Garth if you’d let his loins shudder a little. Mind you, I’m glad you didn’t. Losing once doesn’t brand you forever. Garth’s not the only guy in the world—he’s not even the best. You only think so because Helen managed to lure him away from you.”
I lifted my head and sniffed. “I don’t know what Jerome told you, but if you think Garth Schuyler ever meant anything to me, you’re nuts.”
“So how come your hands are clenched into fists? How come in all the time we’ve spent together, you never once mentioned you have a sister?”
“I didn’t mention lots of things!”
“There’s no point sticking your head in the sand.”
I slowly unclenched my fists, but my stomach was still a hard knot of anger—against Helen, for Garth; against Brad, for bringing the subject up; against Jerome, for blabbing my secrets. And most of all, against me, for being me. “I don’t have to listen to this rot.”
“Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”
“Fine, I can take a hint. I’ll go.” I struggled up from the low sofa.
Brad got up and took a step toward me. With one last mutual glare, we parted. I’m crazy. I must be crazy, walking out on this man, a small voice whispered, but my pace didn’t slacken as I hurried over the thick carpet. Till I got to the marble hallway, I didn’t realize Brad was following me. The carpet cushioned his footfalls, but they suddenly echoed on the hard surface. And still I didn’t stop, or even slow down. I wanted to get out before I burst into tears.