Deceased’s identity? Arthur Shelton himself, owner of this ritzy art market. His errand boy who’d called in the murder three quarters of an hour ago—the twerp with the overdue haircut who was now cooling his heels in the vestibule—had confirmed that much.
McKenna hung his hands over his knees and exhaled through rubbery lips. Shelton’s corpse would squawk even louder once the doc arrived—but already it was whispering that Shelton had been kind of young to own such a posh setup. At Fifty-seventh Street rents, yet. McKenna inched his overcoat sleeve back: 9:25. Doc Lefevers shouldn’t be long—not much work for the medical examiner overnight; the shock of Pearl Harbor had put the kibosh on murder, for a while at least. McKenna was interested to see how long that would last.
“Hey, Lute.”
McKenna swiveled his head to see Patsy Dolan shuffling alongside the blood trail. The slow-moving, wide-faced sergeant gestured like he was thumbing for a hitch. “Got somethin’ in the next room. Looks like Shelton was crating up some paintings when he took the blow. Might not have known what hit him.”
“I’d like to know what hit him. Have the boys found anything?”
“A hammer. No obvious blood on it, but they put it aside for the lab.”
McKenna nodded and turned his attention back to the painting as he creaked to his feet. “Ya see a lion in that painting, Patsy?” Sometimes, his long-time sergeant had a way of framing up the obvious that led McKenna to unexpected insights.
The sergeant worked thick lips and tortured the spine of his slender notebook. “I see a lotta lines, boss. Curvy lines. Straight lines.”
“Lion. I’m saying lion, Pats. The animal—king of beasts.” McKenna gave a short laugh. “Look at the card beside it. ‘Lion after the Kill,’ 1941, oil on canvas by Masako Fumi. Just tell me, where’s the god-damned lion.”
“Oh. Well.” Dolan pointed a husky finger. “That circle there—with the spot in it. It could be an eye. And that wavy outline. Maybe that’s supposed to be its mane.”
“And those grisly streaks and spatters?”
“Blood?”
“You’re in the wrong profession, Patsy. You shoulda been an art critic.” McKenna took the glossy show catalogue from a deep pocket and snapped it open to page one. “Picked this up on the way in. Listen”—he held the booklet at arms’ length—“The collection’s signature painting seems to address both a rampaging lion and its savaged prey lying just outside the boundaries of the canvas.”
“Oh, yeah? Then Shelton’s the gazelle that couldn’t run fast enough.”
“Yeah.” McKenna gave the color photo on the brochure’s cover another close look. Something was off.
In the photo, the Japanese letters stood out against a pale background. He raised his gaze to compare. On the painting, a transparent splash of reddish-brown hue veiled the characters. He reached toward the canvas, touched a fingertip to the radiating drips. Did artists change pictures like this at the last minute? But, jeez, with a scrambled-egg mess like this, what were a few colors more or less?
Dolan went on, “Shelton sure didn’t get in here by running, though.”
“Yeah.” McKenna eyed the rusty-red trail across the terrazzo. Elongated smears punctuated with darker circles. Like a demented housewife mopping with blood, he thought with sudden clarity, and stopping to rest after every swipe. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to drag Shelton in here and arrange him beneath that painting.”
Dolan nodded. “A picture in itself.”
“Huh?”
His sergeant surprised him by making an open square of his hands and extending them like a Hollywood director. “It’s a different picture, now, with Shelton in the frame—posed all artistic like.”
McKenna stepped back. He nodded slowly, taking in the sight with new eyes. “Yeah, a real beaut.”
As he followed Dolan into the adjoining room, he gave the painting several backward glances.
“Here ya go, Lute.”
Display cases holding sculpture and pottery dominated the floor space of this smaller gallery, but Dolan pointed toward the corner where a tipped-over packing crate rested against a mound of excelsior. Blood spatters stood out against the lighter-colored packing material. A brown tweed sport coat had been draped over a stack of already nailed-up crates leaning against the wall. Empty spaces in the parade of canvases showed which paintings had already been crated.
McKenna studied the title placards. “Hungry Ghost.” “Teeth of the Dragon.” “Awakening Demon.” All by the same artist: Masako Fumi.
Who was this bloodthirsty guy, anyhow? He consulted the catalogue again. Found a thumbprint photo of the artist. Oh-ho. Not a guy. A woman—a very pretty woman. Her scanty biography merely told him that she was Japanese by birth but Western in education and culture.
“So what’ve we got, Lute?” Dolan broke the silence.
“Great timing, for one.” McKenna fished a battered pack of Lucky Strikes out of an interior pocket. “Given what happened yesterday.” He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. Exhaling smoke, he went on, “To put on a Jap art show, Shelton was either very brave or living in his own little dream world. Maybe the jackass that threw the brick out front had been here before. Maybe he couldn’t stomach the idea of Jap paintings for sale in Manhattan.”
Dolan jerked his chin back toward the larger gallery. “Stiff’s been dead a couple of days. He was killed before the Japs took out Pearl Harbor.”
“I know that. But hey—it’s not like we didn’t know war was coming.”
“But nobody knew it would start yesterday.”
“That’s for sure.” McKenna rubbed his forehead. While all New York was reeling from the horrifying news, he’d been out on Shinnecock as happy as a man could be. The weather was great, the fish were snapping, and he’d put one keeper cod and four nice blackfish in the box. Then he’d returned to the dock…
McKenna shook his head, took another draw of tobacco. “There’s another thing about the timing.”
“Yeah, boss?”
“This catalogue says Fumi’s show was supposed to run until December 20. How come Shelton was taking her paintings down already?”
“Huh?”
“Just cogitate on that for a minute, will ya, Pats.”
Dolan cogitated as another plainclothes man appeared in the archway that divided the two galleries. “Hey, Lute.”
“Yeah?”
The cop balanced a packing case the size of a small bread box on his palm. No lid and one side had been busted in. He pointed to the excelsior inside. “A few rusty spatters in here, Lute. Looks just like the stuff in the corner.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Trash barrel in the basement furnace room—right on top.”
Eyes glittering, McKenna nodded toward the packing crates. “Put it over there, it’ll all go to the lab with that hammer.”
“Another thing—Grady’s got a reporter at the door.”
McKenna’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. “Not already?”
“Ya might wanna see this one, Lute. The deal is—she says she’s got an appointment with the stiff.”
“She?” McKenna and Dolan said in unison.
“Yeah. I got a good look-see. She’s one cute item.”
Chapter Eleven
Without a word, a bald cop cracked the entry doors open, beckoned Cabby in from the cold, and led her through the gallery’s stuffy, ill-smelling vestibule. A young man with a bowtie leaned against a reception desk and eyeballed Cabby as she dabbed a handkerchief to her dripping nose. His sandy hair swept the back of his collar, and, even though he looked sweaty and nauseous, he puffed on a cigarette for all he was worth.
The cop escorted Cabby into a roomy office furnished in spare modern decor, and she took the most inviting of the seats a
rranged around a kidney-shaped glass slab on tortured chrome legs. By the opposite wall, a similar glass slab functioned as a desk. Her reporter’s eye noted a brand-new Dictaphone and a nameplate that read “Arthur Shelton” in angular Broadway-style lettering. Otherwise, the shining expanse was empty.
“Wait here.” The cop held up a finger as if she were a dog.
“Sure thing, Pops.” She took the opportunity to mull over the scene she had just encountered.
A broken window: yes. A nasty slur scrawled below the window: yes. But that wasn’t all: not by a long-shot. Why the guard on the door? Why the secrecy? More of a story here than simple vandalism, that’s for sure. Cabby felt her blood stir. Fanned out on the glass table among thick auction catalogues were some brochures on the current show. She reached for one, but, when a man entered the room, immediately dropped the little booklet. Showtime!
He was not a large man. Maybe five-ten. His eyes were as gray as his gray serge suit and the skin around them almost as wrinkled. He was, maybe, fifty. But, who was he?
She watched him lower himself with a faint groan onto a chartreuse S-shaped settee, take a deep, final draw on his cigarette and stub it out in a portable tin ashtray. Pressing the cap back on the tin, he replaced it in his pocket. After assessing her with a brief, professional glance, he said, “Show me credentials.” Unstated was, if you’ve got ’em.
Cabby pulled out her notebook and flipped it open to the press card. He took it, positioned it for a good look, handed it back.
She could play it just as cool. “And you are?”
She thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, but the west-facing room was dim in the morning light, and the twitch could easily have been a cloud crossing the sun.
“McKenna,” he said. It wasn’t quite a bark. “Lieutenant Michael McKenna. Homicide.”
She almost squeaked it: “Homicide! Ohmigod!” Then she remembered her professional demeanor, and frowned. But there really was a story here. And it was hers! Cabby’s gaze darted around the office, as if she expected to find a bloody corpse hidden behind the chic geometrically patterned draperies. She took a hard gulp. “I mean, yes, of course—Lieutenant McKenna, Homicide. What can you tell me about the…murder?”
Just for a second, the wrinkles around his eyes became crevices. “Not a heck of a lot, girlie. So you had an appointment with Shelton, huh?” The door opened again and a younger detective, lean and blond, edged in and pulled out a notebook.
Holy cow! What a cutie! Cabby had to force her attention back to the older detective. A pencil appeared in her hand, almost of its own volition. “Victim’s name?”
There was that twitch of the mouth again, that crinkle of the eyes, and McKenna asked, “When’d you make that appointment with Shelton?”
Cabby felt a flush crawl up her neck. Damn it—she was supposed to be an experienced reporter. “So, you’re saying Shelton was the victim?” The pencil came into play.
“No, I’m asking you what your business with Shelton was.” The gray eyes narrowed.
Belatedly she identified the putrid whiff she’d sensed in the vestibule. There was a corpse somewhere on these elegant premises! Then it struck her: she had just lied to a homicide detective about a man who was probably tucked away somewhere close by, cold, dead, and malodorous.
She let out a big sigh—she hadn’t known her lungs could hold so much air—and took a closer look at the guy in charge. Cabby would have known McKenna was a cop anywhere. It was something about his eyes, as if he could perceive truth even if it came wrapped in tinsel and ribbons. No way she could manage to fool him.
She leaned forward. “I lied to the officer at the door.” She said it factually, not confessionally—one professional to another. Implied: you know how it is, to get the job done, ya do what ya gotta do. She still hoped to come out of this with some dignity—and, if possible, with a story.
“You did, huh?”
“Yes. I didn’t have an appointment. I was sent to cover the protest against…the Asian art show.” She didn’t want to bring in Masako Fumi Oakley specifically, not until she had a chance to talk to Louise. Truth-telling was all well and good: partial truth-telling was even better. “When I saw the cop guarding the door, I knew there was more going on here than a broken window, and I…I just followed my nose.”
“A real newshound, huh?” His expression mellowed.
“Yes.” She smiled. Here was an opportunity to form a working relationship with someone in law enforcement. She imagined herself telling Halper: “I’ll get on to my police source about that.”
She shrugged, charmingly, she hoped. “As a matter of fact, I never heard of Arthur Shelton until I saw his name beside the door.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded. “And, now, Lieutenant, you say he’s dead?”
“I didn’t say any such thing. But I do have a few questions for you, girlie.” Not so mellow, all of a sudden. “What’s your paper’s real interest in the Shelton Gallery? On a big news day like this, the august and venerable New York Times wouldn’t send someone up here to cover an act of minor vandalism.”
She sighed. This old cop just wasn’t going to let her hold anything back. She swiveled her gaze toward the Cutie Pie, but he kept his eyes on the notebook. So, okay. Out rolled the story of Masako Fumi’s arrest by the FBI.
McKenna replied with an expressionless, silent nod.
Why did he have to be so damn cagey? If she was going to get her scoop, she’d have to confirm the identity of the victim. Cabby tried one more tack. “So since Fumi is the star of this show, and the owner of the gallery turns up dead—”
“Don’t trip over that nose of yours, Nancy Drew, Girl Detective. I haven’t named any names.”
Something told Cabby to remain silent and plaster on her most fetching smile. Louise’s Southern ways must be rubbing off.
“Well.” The word came out as a gravelly rumble. The detective snatched up one of the glossy booklets and waved it at Cabby. “Whaddaya think of this?” He tapped a finger on the full-color reproduction of “Lion After the Kill” printed on the cover.
Cabby studied the lurid image. “Hmm…” She scrambled to recall her one art-history course. What had Professor Zimbalist said about this type of painting? “Well, of course, it’s deeply influenced by prevailing trends in the European art world. The modernist painter expresses his soul and personality by abstracting the essence of an object and presenting it in terms of mass, energy, and color rather than of mere figure.”
McKenna glanced from the young woman’s face down to the catalogue cover and back up again. “Is that so?”
She felt herself shrug. “I studied some art history at Hunter College.”
“Di-i-i-d you?” He studied the catalogue’s cover again. “Well, thanks for making it as plain as mud, girlie.”
Cabby tilted her head and looked up at him with cat’s eyes. “Look, I’ve cooperated—given you information about Fumi. Now, you can help me, right? Isn’t that how it works? One hand washes the other.”
“Oh, ri-i-ight.” She noted a definite smile before he shot a question at Blondie. “Hey, Brenner, should we let her in on the story? Since the news is gonna be out in a coupla hours anyhow, a smart little girl like her might as well get the scoop. Don’cha think?”
Brenner shrugged.
McKenna held up a finger. “Listen good, ’cause this is all you’re gonna get.”
He gave her the name of the victim and the time of discovery.
“So it was Shelton! Who found him?”
“Desmond Cox, Shelton’s assistant.”
“That’s the guy at the reception desk, the one with the eyeball?”
McKenna laughed. So, the old guy had a sense of humor. She’d have to remember that.
“When was Shelton killed?” Must
be at least couple of days ago, by the odor.
“We’re not releasing that until we’re certain.”
“How was he killed?”
“Ditto. But I’ll tell you this—his body was found right underneath that painting I showed you in the catalogue.”
Cabby looked up from her notebook. “Really? Now that’s interesting.”
“You think so, huh? What would you say if I told you Shelton had been killed while he was crating up the Fumi show—a couple of weeks before it was scheduled to end.”
“I’d say that was interesting, too.” The artist, she thought. Maybe the artist did it. Maybe she and Shelton had had a falling out.”
McKenna only chuckled for a fleeting second.
Cabby chewed on the end of her pencil and sighed again. “I’m not gonna get anything more, am I?” Casually, she slipped one of the brochures into her bag.
“Nope. That’s all she wrote.”
Okay, so it was the end of the line with the homicide cop, but she had enough for a two-inch item, maybe more. She could call it in to the news desk now. That would shake up Halper and the boys!
“Well, thank you very much, Lieutenant.” She held out her hand.
McKenna blinked, then took the hand and held it gently, as if it were made of porcelain. “Goodbye, Miss Drew.”
“Ward. My name is Ward.” She read the upturned mouth. “But, then, you knew that, didn’t you? Very funny.”
As she left the office, her attention had already skipped several paces ahead, to the young man in the vestibule. First she’d lure this Desmond Cox outside and interview him about finding the body. Then she’d call the news desk.
But a bellow from behind derailed her plans. McKenna’s voice: “Dolan! Get Cox back here. Pronto.”
Drat! Scratch the interview with Desmond Cox. Cabby went out and turned down Fifth Avenue, walking at a brisk pace. She checked her watch. Not quite noon. She might as well try to catch James LaSalle, the Times’ art critic, before she got to her story. Just how important an artist was this Masako Fumi Oakley, anyhow?
Face of the Enemy Page 6