He smiled. She was about to tell him she was donating the entire collection to him.
“I saw my lawyer this morning,” she went on, “and I’m delighted to say I am donating the entire collection to the Luella Pryce Memorial Gallery.”
He gaped at her.
“Well, it isn’t the Luella Pryce Memorial Gallery now,” she said, “but it will be by the time the paintings are ensconced. For now it will be the Luella Pryce Gallery, which I will fund. Building will begin as soon as we review the architect’s plans.”
Of course it would. Luella was the main patron and sat on the board of directors.
It was only his good breeding and silver tongue that saved him. “Why, Luella,” he said, taking her hand, brushing his lips over the silky thin skin, “what a splendid plan. Not surprising, of course, given your record of generosity and leadership to this community.”
She smiled. “I knew you would approve.” She raised a finger. “Now, I haven’t forgot you, of course, dear Leonard.”
His ears pricked up.
“I have instructed that you are to be recognized on the plaque as the genius who assembled the collection.”
“That’s very gracious of you, Luella. I, of course, was merely a humble agent,” he said modestly, all the time thinking that if he hadn’t been the agent the collection would have been atrocious.
He sat smiling, occasionally sipping at his tea, while she went on about her plans for the gallery, the curtains, the floor coverings, the furnishings, his mind a muddle. When Luella finally shuffled off, he knew what would happen. The paintings would be taken to the gallery, which would call upon the services of its own curator and probably an expert on contract. And he knew that expert, because of his close relationship to Luella, would not be him.
After tea, he went home, went into his studio, locked the door, and ruminated. There was a simple solution, of course — in his opinion this sort of situation could always be solved by simple means. Unfortunately, the solution, although simple, was disagreeable. He could, for example, talk Luella into having him clean the Cartwrights again, then simply return the originals to her. The problem with this was twofold: he would lose them; she would destroy them, if only through lack of appreciation.
He moped about this for almost two weeks, all the time keeping a solicitous ear out for any hint of Luella’s declining health. Finally, he decided he had just one option: Wait until Luella left the house, then steal the copies.
Stealing them shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought, given Luella’s nonexistent security system and her habit of going out and leaving the door unlocked, or, at least, a window open. And if he were caught, he could simply say he was concerned about Luella and decided to enter the house to check on her condition. This idea let him get one night of reasonably restful sleep. On waking, the idea seemed flawed. If he simply stole them, Luella would have the police onto it, and, as Luella suggested, she owned the chief of police. They would go over the entire island with a fine-tooth comb. The paintings would be a topic of intense interest to everyone from true-crime television producers to Interpol for decades, perhaps forever. He would probably be under intense scrutiny, if only because of his intimate history with Luella and the works in question. At least Cartwright had died a few years ago, of old age — as opposed to an exotic suicide fuelled by self-doubt, which would have increased the value of his work substantially — so he wouldn’t be around for media interviews. There was only one solution: Luella’s copies would have to be destroyed.
He sat back, sipping on his glass of wine. Destroying the copies would solve all of his problems. He would have the originals he so loved and no one would go looking for them. Now, how would he destroy them? Hurricane season was always a possibility, but the outcome would be uncertain. He set his jaw, swallowed painfully, a habit he had picked up after hearing Luella’s plans for the gallery. He knew what had to be done. Luella’s house, including the entire collection, would have to be burnt beyond recognition.
He told himself he wouldn’t be doing anything wrong. Many of Luella’s paintings, in spite of his advice, were not remarkable. She had a habit of fixating on the subject of the works instead of the execution. And he would have the most remarkable — the Cartwrights — saved in his own keeping. The idea of setting fire to Luella’s house left him cold, however. He wasn’t the criminal type; he would probably commit some sort of fatal error. He needed an accomplice. Someone who had the correct mindset, an amoral soul, someone who owed him one and would continue to owe him one.
Tibor was on the veranda with a sandwich and a glass of ale when Leonard approached, eating in his robotic way. He was whip-thin and already had a receding hairline, which Leonard often thought was the result of constant malicious plotting. Tibor never seemed to enjoy his food. Leonard wasn’t entirely sure what he did enjoy. Leisure perhaps. One thing Leonard was sure of was that Tibor had no intention of working in a conventional way for a day in his life.
“Tibor,” he began, “I have a proposition for you.”
Tibor took a sip of ale, then set the glass aside.
“It’ll be worth your while, of course,” Leonard continued. When Tibor didn’t respond, he added, “You have a good life, Tibor, not much is asked of you.”
“I guess,” Tibor responded indifferently.
“You’re an adult now. Most guardians would expect that you would have pursued an education with the idea of finding a career and eventually supporting yourself. You haven’t been pushed in that direction.”
Tibor gave him a sullen look.
“I’m a different sort of man,” Leonard continued, beginning to feel a little nervous at the enormity of his request. “I don’t place any moral value in work and I wouldn’t see you any differently if you chose to while away your time collecting lint.” He didn’t add that, as far as he could tell, all Tibor was doing was whiling away his time and would never make anything of himself.
Tibor nodded.
“I need you to set fire to Luella’s house,” Leonard said. There, he’d said it. His throat constricted.
Tibor’s expression didn’t change.
“It’s for the best,” Leonard continued idiotically. “The house is a public health hazard, dirty and full of debris. We’ll wait for an evening Luella is assured to be out. The only thing that will suffer is the rats.”
Tibor stared at him, forehead creased. “Why not just call in a cleaning crew or an exterminator?”
Leonard brushed the suggestion aside. “Luella wouldn’t allow that.”
“So what? When she dies, somebody’ll shovel the place out.”
“She’s ruining the paintings,” Leonard said without thinking.
Tibor looked at him as if he were insane. “So you want me to burn them instead.”
Leonard took a deep breath. “No, that’s not what I want.”
“So you’re going to take the paintings out first.”
Leonard swallowed painfully. This was getting away from him. He stared at the wall past Tibor’s shoulder. “No.”
Tibor reached for his glass. “What’s this really about?” he asked, peering at his uncle over the rim. “Do you get a chunk of the insurance money?”
Leonard worried his cuff button. “No.”
Tibor took a long sip, then fixed Leonard with a triumphant smile. “You’d better come clean with me, Uncle Leonard, because I haven’t done anything wrong, and you’ve tried to engage me in a criminal act.”
“All right,” Leonard said hoarsely. He took a few moments to compose himself, then explained his problem.
Tibor chuckled. “So you’d rather be jailed for arson than exposed as a fraud.”
Leonard was silent.
“So,” Tibor continued, “you made copies and sold the originals.”
“No, I didn’t sell the originals.” Leonard regretted his words as
soon as they were out of his mouth.
“But you’re going to sell them.”
“I haven’t decided. It’d be a delicate transaction, you understand.”
“You’re going to have to,” said Tibor. “And when you do, I want a big cut.”
Leonard looked away. “Yes.”
Tibor eyed him shrewdly. “If I’m going to stick my neck out, I want to see the paintings.”
“Why?”
“How do I know you haven’t already sold them?”
“I said I hadn’t.”
Tibor laughed. “And I should trust you since you’re such an ethical man?”
Leonard got up heavily. “Come into the parlour and wait there.” He went into his studio, removed the paintings from the safe and brought them to Tibor.
Tibor examined the paintings. “So the ones Luella had hanging in the dining room were the copies. The Cartwrights.”
“Yes.” Leonard returned the artwork to his studio, stood for a minute looking out over the garden to catch his breath, then returned to Tibor. “The way I see it,” he said briskly, “is this. The job will be rather simple. The house is never completely locked and Luella is out to meetings on a regular schedule. I’ll make sure to lift one of her half-smoked cigarettes from the ashtray. Simply light it and drop it into the wastepaper basket by her chair by the downstairs television. That place is so full of rubbish, it will go up like a match.”
Tibor took a bite of his sandwich, chewed it slowly. “If it’s that simple, why don’t you do it?”
“Because I think you’d do it better,” said Leonard, which was easy to say since he was telling the truth. “And I’m obliged to attend many of the events Luella does. If I don’t show up, it’ll seem suspicious in retrospect.”
Tibor frowned.
“If worse comes to worse and you get caught,” said Leonard, “you can say you were out of cigarettes and you knew Luella always had some scattered about. You went over, noticed she had a new large-screen television. You thought you’d take a look, lit a cigarette. You thought you’d put it out, but apparently there was still a spark.” He smiled, pleased with his invention. “It was an accident. Why wouldn’t the police believe that? What motive could you have?” He shrugged. “But you won’t get caught, the investigators will think Luella dropped a cigarette into the wastepaper basket. Even she’ll think she did. She’s done it before and she is quite dotty.”
Tibor shrugged. “And if you don’t sell the paintings, what do I get?”
“You’ll never have to work a day in your life and you’ll inherit my estate.”
“How can I trust you?”
Leonard smiled. “Because we’re in this together. We’ll have to trust each other.”
Tibor fixed him with a long stare. “All right.”
“Then it’s done.” He put a hand to his chest. “I think I’ll lie down for a bit. I seem to have a touch of indigestion.”
Leonard went into his studio, locked the door, and collapsed into his chair, exhausted. They were in this together — he and Tibor. He had a foreboding it was an arrangement he would come to regret.
Chapter Two
Leonard chose the fifteenth of April to carry out his plan. The fifteenth was the gala for the club, the place where Luella reigned and received the accolades of her subjects. He thought that Luella might have taken a cynical pleasure in the kowtowing earlier in her life. But, as the years passed, he realized she had actually come to believe in its sincerity. He regretted what had to be done because he knew the destruction of her ancestral home would be a severe blow to the old lady. But she had the money to re-establish herself. And if she had a heart attack because of the stress of the situation, then that would not be an unpleasant way to go.
He forced himself to tamp down the discomfort he felt at involving Tibor. Not that he believed he was corrupting the young man’s morals. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to corrupt. He didn’t like the uncomfortable position of being subject to blackmail. But then he was already being blackmailed, albeit emotionally, by his young charge, and he had something on him too. He felt certain Tibor would not risk going to prison when keeping his mouth shut would be much more lucrative and a whole lot more pleasant.
The alternative — where Luella proudly presented her collection to the gallery and the Cartwrights were exposed as fraudulent — was simply too ghastly to contemplate.
That night, he dressed for the gala and left at his usual time. He did not usually escort Luella to these things as he liked to use the time before the event got underway to renew and reinforce his relationships with the important people in the art community and Luella was chronically late. Also, although the closeness of their relationship was well known in the community, he did not want to appear to be a complete lap dog. He realized what a good thing this arrangement was, as he wouldn’t have to concoct some story to explain why she hadn’t turned up on his arm.
Luella would arrive like a large steamship, breaking through the entrance and plowing into the crowd, parting it like the Red Sea. She did like the undivided attention of the assembled. Once she had made her entrance, he would, of course, hurry to her side, take her arm and guide her toward her seat at the head table before retiring to his seat off the platform. Much like a tugboat bringing a ship into harbour, he often thought. He did, however, escort her home, which pleased her because it made it look…well, as if he were taking her home.
He went over the plan with Tibor just before he left, standing in the foyer, dressed to the nines, turning his hat in his hands. “Any questions?” he added.
Tibor gave him a look that suggested he had plenty of questions that had nothing to do with the mission, then shook his head.
“She’ll be gone by eight-fifteen,” he finished. “If you have any doubt, take a walk through the house.”
“What if she’s still there?”
Leonard shrugged. “Just say you thought you heard someone scream as you were passing by and thought she might be in trouble.”
Leonard left. Tibor checked his watch, then sat back. At eight-fifteen, he left the house and made his way to Luella’s, creeping along the back paths. As he peered through a hole in the fence, he saw a car glide away. He checked his watch. The old lady was late getting away.
The house sat back from the road behind a tall, overgrown hedge. The portico was obscured with vines and incongruous red-and-white awnings. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then tried the door. Locked. He tried the French window a few feet away. Unlocked. He slipped in.
The foyer was dimly lit, but the living room to the right was lit up like a Christmas tree. A television set blared out some inane game show. Tibor found the sound annoying, but decided against turning the set down. Although the noise made it almost impossible to hear other sounds, he realized if he cut the volume anyone who might happen to be in the house would notice. He entered the living room, reconnoitered briefly. The table beside the overstuffed chair contained an ashtray overflowing with butts. He also noted the decanter of spirits and its stopper lying on the floor beside the chair, with a glass drained and lying on its side.
He glanced toward the road again, saw nothing. He did a tour of the house, calling out in case the housekeeper had stayed late. The kitchen was empty. He mounted the stairs, at first carefully, then with full force, remembering what Leonard had said about his excuse for being in the house in case it wasn’t empty. He glanced into each room as he passed, calling out occasionally. He stopped at what he guessed was the old lady’s bedroom and looked in. The room was buried under a mountain of clothes, purses and hats, draped over chairs, hanging thick against closet doors. Leonard was right; the place would go up like a torch. A strong odour of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
He ran down the stairs, paused a moment in the dining room to glance at the fake Cartwrights. Uncle Leonard had
done a good job, he thought. He shrugged, went into the living room. The wastepaper basket beside the chair was overflowing with wads of paper, old tissue and the odd apple core. He took the butt Leonard had purloined on a recent visit, slipped a disposable plastic cigarette holder over the end, took out his lighter and lit up. He inhaled deeply to make sure the cigarette had legs, then dropped it into the wastepaper basket. He waited until the refuse was flaming nicely above the rim of the basket, noting how it licked at the armchair and curled the fibres of the throw. From there, a short hop to the rugs, the dried flower arrangements, the heaps of newspapers, the curtains, the ancient flammable furniture, the paintings. He pocketed the cigarette holder and lighter and left by the back door, retracing his route home, dropping the lighter and holder down a sewer drain.
Leonard didn’t notice Luella had failed to arrive right away. An art collector he considered a parvenu had cornered him and he was doing his best to be attentive. He told himself he didn’t want to offend the man. He didn’t mind the potential business angle — the man was rich after all — but he cringed inwardly about taking on another Luella with pedestrian tastes. He listened to the man, feigning interest, something he had become skilled at doing. At one point, he heard a kerfuffle over the polite murmur and delicate clinking of fine stemware and assumed a gaggle of guests had arrived simultaneously and were trying to sort out the order of entrance as dictated by their social status. But it proved to be nothing more than an accident at the coat rack in which two dowagers got their mink wraps entangled as they were removing them. He noticed one of the organizers glancing repeatedly at his watch. He checked his own. Luella was even later than usual. He supposed the organizer was concerned about delaying dinner but reluctant to proceed without Luella’s presence. The organizer whispered to his assistant, who then slipped away.
The assistant went to telephone Luella and find out what was delaying her. He got a busy signal. He wondered what sort of phone call could possibly keep Luella away so long. Unless she had fallen asleep and knocked the phone off the hook. That would not surprise him. Luella was getting older and he had noticed an increased tendency for her to nod off. He decided to wait for another fifteen minutes, then send someone around to check the roadway in case her taxi had been in an accident, although he couldn’t imagine any taxi driver daring to have a misfortune with her on board.
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 2