“‘Fraid I came away without my raincoat.” The weather would take the blame for his dishevelled appearance. “Hard to get a taxi in the rain.”
“Always,” sympathized the impeccable Ronald Horan. “Well. There it is.”
Fletch had stopped in front of the painting.
Damned fool title but what could the painting be called but “Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle”? The basic shape was repeated three times. The first image, or the fourth, was the true shape.
“Magnificent,” he said.
“I believe I can guarantee its authenticity.”
“I’m speechless,” Fletch said.
“I’m curious as to why you want to purchase this piece in particular? I’m always curious about that.”
“I saw a slide of it,” Fletch said, “at a little showing in Cannes, sometime well after Picasso’s death. It just sped by with a lot of other slides. It struck me as possibly the key Cubist work, even more refined than others of the same theme.”
Horan was looking at the painting as well.
“You may be right,” he said.
“But let’s not tell Mister Cooney.”
Fletch walked around the easel. “It’s all right? It arrived without damage?”
“No damage at all.” Horan joined him behind the painting. “And, I may add, I believe this is the original stretcher. Although it may not be.”
“You picked it up at the airport yourself?”
Horan moved to the front of the painting.
“I rather indicated to Mister Cooney we’d be in touch with him sometime early today. Although we needn’t be, of course. It’s up to you.”
“What’s your advice?”
“You might start with six hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Fletch wandered to a chair from which he could see both Horan and the painting.
“You say Mister Cooney is not an active collector?”
“Well, he’s not in the business of collecting,” Horan answered. “I’ve bought one or two other things from him in the last year or two. They’ve always proven to be right.”
“You’ve bought two other paintings from him within the last two years?”
“As I say, the man doesn’t have a professional reputation to uphold, as a dealer would have, or a museum, but his other sales, at least through this gallery, have been entirely successful.”
Tall, slim, suave, greying Horan prowled the rug, arms behind his back, in an attitude of respectful waiting.
Quietly, firmly, Fletch said, “I’m interested in the painting’s provenance.”
“Ah!” Horan responded as if a whole new topic had been introduced—an original question from a slow student. “I’m not sure you’ll be entirely satisfied there.”
“No?”
“You see, in many private sales provenance is not offered.” The man was lecturing again. “Especially in a case of this sort. There is no record of this painting in existence—at least none I’ve been able to find. Of far more importance, there appears to be no record of this painting’s ever having left another country, or ever having entered this country. Governments, with their taxes and other requirements, their increasing interest in preserving national cultural objects, these days, you know, can be a bit sticky.”
“I know. Which, of course, makes my having the provenance of this painting all the more important.”
“Yes, I can see that. You live in Italy, don’t you?”
“I sometimes do.”
“Of course, we can ask Mister Cooney the provenance.”
“You haven’t done so?”
“I know what he’ll say.”
“Let me guess,” said Fletch. “He’ll say he bought it from a reputable dealer in Switzerland sometime in the past, and he doesn’t remember precisely when.”
“Well, yes.” Horan was pleased by the slow student’s perceptive answer. “I expect that’s what he would say.”
“There are more reputable art dealers in Switzerland than there are citizens of France. Piled on top of each other, they are that nation’s national culture.”
“As I guess you know, Swiss dealers seldom confirm sales.”
“I think we should ask, Mister Horan.”
“By all means, we should.”
“I wish to know the source, and the history of this painting.”
“Of course, when a provenance isn’t offered, Mister Fletcher….”
“I would be derelict in not asking for the provenance.”
“You said you represent yourself?”
“I would be derelict in my obligations to myself, my estate, as well as to those parts of the art world which consider their responsibilities. Frankly, I’m fairly shocked you cannot say you have already asked for a complete provenance.”
Below Horan’s silver-streaked temples appeared a flush of red.
“I don’t think you understand, Mister Fletcher, how usual this situation is. Very common, indeed. Art is the international language. It is also an international currency. The art market, by its nature, is international. It cannot recognize arbitrary, national borders. Governments have been poking more and more into matters which are beyond their natural province. People must insist upon privacy in their affairs, especially in aesthetic matters.”
“Ah, yes,”
“You remember, I’m sure, the deluge of art objects flooding out of Britain in late 1975, as a result of incredible legislative mistakes by the Labour government. Were you unsympathetic?”
“I understood the movement.”
“Incidentally, it is entirely possible ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle‘ is one of those objects of art which found its way here from Britain.”
“It’s also possible it’s not. In any case, even if it is, I must protect myself, Mister Horan.”
“My dear Mister Fletcher! You are protected. Entirely protected. We are not new in this business. After spending a little more time with this painting, I’m sure I will have no hesitation in authenticating it. If you wish a second authentication, or even a third, such can be arranged locally within a matter of days, if not hours.”
“Very good of you.”
“You will have bought the painting through the Horan Gallery in Boston, with proper authentication. My reputation has never been questioned. If asked, which I doubt I would be, I will state happily the seller is James Cooney, of Dallas, Texas. When asked, he, in turn….”
“…will say he bought it sometime in the past from a reputable dealer in Switzerland,” Fletch said. “And the reputable dealer in Switzerland will refuse to come forward with the record, which is his right, as a Swiss citizen.”
“Bless the Swiss,” said Horan. “They still have some sense of privacy left—although it is dissipating.”
“I understand all this, Mister Horan.”
“In the meantime, and forever, your investment is absolutely protected.”
“It remains my obligation to ask the question. I want to know where Cooney got the painting, even if it is in the nature of private, undocumented information.”
“Yes. Of course, you’re right, Mister Fletcher. We should ask the question. In the meantime, would you care to mention a specific price to Mister Cooney?”
Horan stepped behind his Louis Seize desk to answer the telephone. The ring had been muffled.
“Hello? Yes, this is Mister Horan…. Who wishes to speak to me? … Hello? No, operator, no … I will accept no calls from anyone in Chicago today…. This is the third call I’ve had from the Chicago Tribune… I have already denied that story…. What’s your name? … Mister Potok? … Two others of your reporters have already called here this morning, Mister Potok. How many times do I have to deny a story? … I am not giving, nor have I ever intended to give a painting to the Chicago museum…. What do you mean, what painting am I not going to give? My God…. I have no idea where the Boston newspaper got the story. I believe it was the Star. I haven’t read the story. I expect it was their idiot critic, Charles Wa
inwright, who has never gotten anything right…. Listen, Mister Potok, I am not giving a painting to the Chicago museum; I never intended to give a painting to the Chicago museum…. I never will give a painting to the Chicago museum…. What do you mean? I have nothing against the Chicago museum…. Mister Potok, I am running out of patience. The story is entirely fallacious. Please don’t call here again.”
His footfalls on the rug repeated the quiet firmness with which he had hung up the phone.
“Some damn fool Boston newspaper reported I am going to give a painting to the Chicago museum.” Horan shook his head.
“Totally untrue. Where do they get things like that?”
“There’s no accounting for the press,” said Fletch.
“We were discussing price.”
Fletch stood. He remembered he didn’t have a coat.
“Yes. We were,” said Fletch.” I think we might offer Mister Cooney two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Horan looked slapped.
“That would be totally unacceptable.”
“I know. I’ll go higher, of course. But tell Mister Cooney I am deeply anxious about the source of this painting.”
“I doubt he’ll talk in response to such an offer.”
“He might talk—a lot.”
XXII
“W H O’S there?”
“The big, bad pomegranate.”
It was eleven-thirty Saturday morning.
Fletch had had to go a little out of his way to find a hardware store on his way home from Newbury Street. He had bought a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and a small can of household oil—all of which he had left in the truck.
After putting the truck in the River Street garage, he had cut through the alley and up the iron, cement-walled back stairs to his apartment.
He had forgotten Mrs. Sawyer would be there. Naturally, she had locked the back door.
“You go away,” she shouted through the door. “Nothing gets picked up on Saturdays.”
“It’s Mister Fletcher, Mrs. Sawyer! Please open up.”
“What are you doing out there?”
The two bolts slid free of the door.
“Well, look at you!” she said. “Out caterwauling all night! Where’s your coat? You’re wet like a puppy.”
“Good morning.”
“You have a European countess sleeping in your own bed, and you’re not even home to enjoy it.”
“In my bed?”
“She calls herself the Countess del Gassey.”
“She should.”
“I’ve never seen so much luggage. She expect to be buried here?”
“She slept in my bed?”
“Didn’t you leave her there?”
“I did not. Where is she?”
“She said something about going shopping. Then she said something about going to the museum and visiting some galleries.”
“Great.”
“I fed her, and she’s gone. Mercy, Lord, was she hungry! You’d think no one had fed her in a month.”
“No one has.” The bright, white kitchen was a complete contrast to the cold, dark, wet truck. “I’m wet.”
“Your hair looks like you spent the night tunnelling through a haystack. Maybe that’s what you were doing. You want something to eat?”
“Sure would. Where are the countess’s things?”
“You’ll see. All over the apartment. I never met such a bossy woman. She talked to me like I was a platoon.”
“Would you move everything of hers into a guest room, please? And then close the door. Tight.”
“I’m not sure it will all fit! You want breakfast, or lunch?”
“Anything warm would be great. By the way, where are the telephone books?”
After standing in a warm shower, he sat on the edge of his bed and checked all the local telephone books.
There was no listing for Lucy Connors.
However, there was a listing, on Fenton Street, in Brookline, for Marsha Hauptmann.
He dialled the number and waited through four rings.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Martin Head, of Très Magazine. Is Ms. Connors there?”
Fletch guessed it was Ms. Hauptmann who said, “Just a moment, please.”
Another voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Ms. Connors, this is Martin Head, of Très Magazine. I’ve been trying your number all week.”
“Yes?”
“Ms. Connors, I’d appreciate your listening very carefully to what I have to say, and see if you can’t agree to it.”
“I doubt I will.”
“Please. You’ll see our intention is good and, with your cooperation, the result may be good.”
“You’ve got me mystified. I don’t read your magazine.”
“We would like to do a sensitive, personal story—without mentioning any names, or using any photographs—on women who have declared themselves lesbian, especially after having gone through a few years of married life.”
“Where did you get my name?”
“Your husband.”
“Bart’s in Italy. I can’t believe that.”
“We met him Tuesday night in Montreal. Apparently he’s far more understanding, or trying to be far more understanding, than many husbands in similar circumstances we have met.”
“Bart? I suppose so.”
“I believe you could give our readers some genuinely sensitive insights into what you’ve been through—some real understanding. You’d be an ideal interview.”
“I don’t think so. Is it Mister Head?”
“Martin.”
“Does this have anything to do with the murder?”
“What murder?”
“There was a murder in my husband’s apartment the other night. I wouldn’t want to comment on it. It’s perfectly irrelevant.”
“I didn’t know about that.” Fletch’s eyes wandered around Lucy and Bart Connors’ old bedroom. “If it’s irrelevant, why should it be mentioned?”
“I don’t think so, Martin. This has been bad enough, without publicity.”
“Lucy, think how bad it is for other women in the circumstances you were in. I daresay you felt pretty alone, going through it.”
“Certainly did.”
“It sometimes helps to be able to read that someone else has been through it. You’ve resolved your problems, fairly successfully, I gather….”
“You’re a very convincing fella, Martin.”
“Furthermore, I guarantee you, there will be no personal publicity. You’ll be referred to as ‘Ms. C’, period. Nice, tasteful drawings, probably abstracts, will be made up as illustrations.”
“And what if you don’t?”
“You can sue us. We know we’re trespassing here on personal, intimate affairs. We’re doing a story on your feelings, rather than the facts. We’re not out to expose anybody, or anything.”
“I see. Would you let me read the story and okay it before it’s published?”
“We don’t like to do that. The editors sort of feel that’s their job.”
“I won’t talk to you unless I see the story before it’s published.”
Fletch forced himself to hesitate. “Okay, Lucy. I agree. It will have to be between us, but I’ll let you see the story before I hand it in. When can I see you?”
“Marsha and I are going shopping this afternoon if this rain ever lets up. And we’re seeing friends tonight.”
“May I come tomorrow morning?”
“Okay. About ten?”
“Ten-thirty. 58 Fenton Street?”
“Apartment 42.”
“Will Ms. Hauptmann be there?”
“You bet. You goof up one little bit, Babe, and we’ll both stomp you.”
XXIII
A F T E R steak and eggs, provided and prepared by Mrs. Sawyer, Fletch got into his freshly made bed with yesterday’s edition of the Boston Star.
The murder of Ruth Fryer received little spa
ce compared to the space devoted to the City Councilperson’s murder. Obviously there was no new news concerning Ruth Fryer’s murder. The City Councilperson’s murder was reported in the greatest detail, together with her full biography, with pictures of her throughout her career, a personal recollection piece by the paper’s chief local reporter, a sidebar of quotes from notables, political and nonpolitical, friends and enemies, all conspicuously generous. She was a jowly, mean-eyed woman. Indeed, she must have been an unpleasant sight, bloody in her bath.
After more than an hour, Fletch saw an advertisement for an Alec Guinness matinée double bill, The Lavender Hill Mob and The Man in the White Suit. It was the right thing to do, on a rainy Saturday afternoon. According to his map, the theatre was not far.
While he was dressing in slacks, loafers, open shirt, sweater and tweed jacket, he heard the door buzzers ring and presumed it was some enterprise of Mrs. Sawyer. She was trying to restock the kitchen shelves.
Coming down the corridor, then, he was surprised to see Inspector Flynn in the hall. His Irish-knit sweater made his chest and shouders look even more huge, his head even more minute.
“Ah!” Flynn grinned amiably. “I was hoping you’d be at home.”
He was carrying a package which was clearly a bottle of something.
“Where’s Grover?” Fletch asked, coming into the hall.
He took Flynn’s outstretched hand.
“I have some time of my own, you know,” Flynn said. “The department lets me off the leash sometimes on the weekend. Had to come near by—wanted to pick up a Schonberg score the store doesn’t have in yet—and happened to consider the City of Boston owes you a bottle of whisky.”
He presented his package with the full joy of giving.
“That’s damned nice of you.”
It was twelve-year-old Pinch.
“Hope I’m not disturbing anything?”
“Oh, no. I was just going to see a couple of Alec Guinness pictures at the Exeter Street Theatre. That’s near by, isn’t it?”
“What a darling man! He’s Irish, you know. Most English people you think of with talent are.” He rubbed his hands together. “I thought it being a rainy Saturday afternoon, you might like to sit with me over a taste…?”
“I thought you never touch the stuff?”
Confess, Fletch Page 11