The Museum Murder

by MacIntyre, John T. ;

  “The Commerce of the West!” said Haviz, nodding. “No limit to it, at all.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” said Billy. “I’ve been trying to imagine how my ideas will look on those huge walls. First I’d have the Indian tribes and their trading with each other; then the coming of the white man in his wide-winged ships. Then the fur trade begins; here is the Santa Fé Trail with its dangers, its romance, its color, its mingling of the nations. Then we have the trappers riding their mustangs, leading their pack mules across the mountains, along the brims of rushing rivers, and wintering in their huts in the wilderness. Now comes early California, like Acadia with its cavaliers, its good priests, and mild savages; here is the mission of San Gabriel, the fur traders’ fairs, the discovery of gold, the wagon trains, the pony express, the coming of the railroad. I’ll show Shasta towering to the skies, and beneath it the Modoc making his last stand; on the plains I see the tepees of the Sioux; among the hills there is the sun dance of the Blackfeet. The lumberjack appears in the far woods of the north. There is the great wheat country with its gang plows and power-driven machinery; then the tail towers of the oil men; and those magicians who made stark, hot deserts bloom like gardens.”

  The young man’s face had grown almost rapt as he talked; and Alma drew very close to him.

  “Billy!” she said, “you see it!”

  “By George!” said Duddington enthusiastically, “there’s a fine lot of material in the subject, isn’t there? It just goes to show,” to Haviz, “what a little thinking over a thing will do.”

  “There’s one thing, Gregory,” said Haviz to the young painter, “you’ll not have to go far for your early Indian, Spanish-American items for study. Here they are, right under your hand, in the museum.”

  Billy nodded and smiled.

  “You know,” he said, “I rather think it was my familiarity with my grandfather’s collection that made me so anxious to get this commission. I’d grown up with it, so to speak; it fascinated me.”

  “He’s at work already,” said Alma, proudly. “I found him sketching in the corridor just now when I came in to see Mary.”

  “There is an old Spanish casque and some arms out there,” said Billy. “They’d been brought from Mexico into California at an early date, and I’d admired them for years.” He showed a sketch he’d been making, a helmet of the type the troops of Cortez had worn, a long, heavy-hilted sword, and a dagger, curved and pommeled in the Moorish fashion. “There’s also a cuirass, and some short leg armor I want to get,” he said.

  Just then the door of the inner office opened, and MacQuarrie appeared.

  “I thank you, Mr. Custis,” he said. “Of course, I shall be guided entirely by what you say. Good-afternoon.” He closed the door and was crossing the office when he saw Duddington and Haviz. “How are you?” he said. He shook hands with both. “And how are you, Miss Rogers?” to Alma. “Mr. Gregory, I’m pleased to see you. Surely,” and he smiled at them affably, “something is going on. Here I find two officials of the Museum present, the grandson of the generous founder, and New York’s most talented young painter. All in a group.” He gestured playfully, his white, fat face full of good-nature, “You must tell me the answer.”

  The girl who had gone into the office immediately upon MacQuarrie’s appearance now came out.

  “Mr. Custis will see you now,” she said to Duddington. “And you, Mr. Haviz.”

  The two went into the private office, leaving the picture dealer talking with Billy and Alma. A thin, crabbed man, who had a ugly twist to his body, giving him a bent and crooked look, sat at a desk, studying some cards; he glanced up and nodded.

  “I thank you,” he said. “You are prompt, gentlemen. Sit down.”

  “Could we have a window or two open?” said Haviz. “You keep it rather close here, Custis.”

  “Ha, ha!” Custis laughed; there was a mocking look in his eyes as he nodded his head at the man. “I’d forgotten, Mr. Haviz. Of course, you need gallons and gallons of fresh air. I’ll call a man in and we’ll have them all up.”

  He was about to touch a button, but Haviz stopped him.

  “We’ll not make a fuss over it,” said Haviz. “So don’t bother. I’ll open them myself.” He threw up several of the windows and then sat down. “Now,” he said, “if Chalmers is ready, we’ll hear what you have to say.”

  The mocking look in the eyes of Custis increased.

  “Why, now, that’s excellent,” he said. “There’s never any time lost where you are concerned, Mr. Haviz. It’s a wonder, considering your efficiency and promptitude, you’ve never pushed your art further than you have.”

  “It may be I would have progressed further if I hadn’t set myself against certain things,” said Haviz, and Duddington surprisedly noted his face was white. “Good work isn’t always necessary to getting ahead in the way you recognize, Custis.”

  The man at the desk grinned delightedly at the anger he had aroused in Haviz; and he was about to say something more in the hope of adding to it when Duddington leaned forward.

  “You’ve called us here on business,” he said. “And I’ve come back to the city in this terrible weather in response. So don’t let’s waste any time.”

  Custis favored the young man with an acid smile; he sank back in his chair.

  “Very well,” he said. “Since you both seem to be in a hurry, we’ll come to the matter at once. It has to do, as so many things seem to, of late, with Mr. Sheerness.”

  “What’s that estimable gentleman been doing now?” asked Duddington.

  “A few days ago,” said Custis, a twist at the corner of his mouth, “he gave us two of the three known plates of the Salamancan engraver, Vasqual.”

  “No!” said Duddington. “Did he, really? Why, you know, he gets more and more sporting all the time.”

  “Mr. Sheerness is a wonderful person,” said Custis, still with a sneer, “One might expect anything from him.” He got up and went to a cabinet and took out a portfolio. “He has a keen scent,” he said as he undid the fastening; “and as he has a great deal of money little escapes him.” He threw the portfolio open. “Whistler,” he said, “is a master whose slightest work has been so searched out that an expert might say it was not possible that the most fragmentary thing had been overlooked. And yet look at these!”

  “Lithographs!” said Duddington, astonished. “But don’t say they are really Whistlers!”

  “Twenty-odd,” said Custis. “Each of them a Whistler.”

  While Duddington exclaimed and eagerly examined the faded and somewhat tattered prints, Haviz looked on with a frown; he trifled with his stick, and his foot beat an impatient time.

  “In 1877,” said Custis, “Whistler first showed an interest in lithography and worked on the stone intermittently for twenty years. He exhibited some seventy prints at that time, and, until now, these were regarded as his entire work in that medium.”

  “I suppose,” said Haviz, “these cost Sheerness a fabulous sum of money.”

  “He did not say,” said Custis, with his disagreeable smile. “But no doubt they did. The items Mr. Sheerness buys always do.”

  Haviz savagely prodded the floor with his stick.

  “One of the most astonishing things in art,” he said, “is that its rewards go mainly to speculators. Whistler wore out his nerves and embittered his spirit trying to gain recognition in this medium,” nodding toward the lithographs, “and now the profits go to strangers.”

  “That’s a condition that has always existed,” said Custis. “I don’t see how it can be remedied.”

  “There’s been no attempt to remedy it. A million is tossed dealers for the works of a dead man, where a dollar is laid out fostering the work of artists still alive—artists who hold the future of painting and sculpture and such like things in their hands.”

  Custis screwed his mouth to one side.

  “I had not thought work was as slack with you as all that,” he said.


  Haviz looked at the man steadily, his eyes flaming. But it was Duddington who spoke.

  “I agree with Haviz,” said he. “There are scores of young men and women in the art schools today whose abilities are being dwarfed through lack of a little money. One tenth the sum spent upon these scraps, which Whistler assuredly never intended to see the light, would solve the problems of scores of earnest students and afford them a chance to develop.”

  Duddington was still talking; Custis, shaking his head in derision, gathered up the prints and restored them to the portfolio; and then Sheerness was shown in. He nodded coldly to Haviz. Duddington ignored him, sitting deep in his chair, studying a painting upon the office wall and whistling “Le Cœur de ma vie” under his breath.

  “I’m sorry to call you into town on such a day, Mr. Sheerness,” smiled Custis. “It must have been inconvenient.”

  Sheerness nodded; he did not sit down, but stood erect and silent.

  “I think,” said Duddington, “we have all been inconvenienced.”

  “No doubt,” Custis looked at him disagreeably; “your attention is so likely to be taken up by dinner engagements, and Mr. Haviz, I know, is engrossed in his studio with his portrait painting. However, it was necessary to have you all here together, and I think myself extremely fortunate,” nodding at each of them, “to have accomplished it. For there is something to which I desire to call your attention,” to Sheerness, “and I felt it would be best if I had the attendance of my fellow trustees as witnesses.”

  Sheerness moved about the office, his hands behind him. To Duddington, the man’s arrogant jaw and cold eyes seemed more arrogant and cold than he’d ever noticed them before.

  “Our dealings with you, Mr. Sheerness,” Custis said, “have been of a most cordial and kindly nature. Profitable to us, and I hope pleasant to you. But,” and his hand went to his mouth as though to hide the malice that played about it, “things come up now and then that are neither one nor the other; and it is one of those we are met here this afternoon to discuss.” He crossed the office and opened a door which led to the storeroom. “If you please,” he said.

  They followed him into the place, and he turned on the lights. There was a huddle of unframed canvases leaning against the walls; opened cases which seemed to have been partly emptied; bits of ironwork and brass and sculpture stood about. And quite near to the office door stood a figure of what seemed tarnished silver, apparently very old, but in an excellent state of preservation.

  “A Diana,” said Duddington, much interested. “An Ephesian Diana!” He went quite close to the silver figure, examining it closely. “Well, I say, now, here’s a find. Where’d it come from, Custis?”

  With a smirk Custis indicated Sheerness.

  “This,” he said, “is a gift of Mr. Sheerness to the John Gregory Museum.”

  “Ah!” said the fat young man, and puffed his cheeks. “I see.”

  “It was because of this figure,” said Custis, “that I called you to meet Mr. Sheerness here this afternoon.”

  “Just why did you feel that necessary?” asked Haviz. “When you received the collection of Roman medals for the museum, we were not sent for. A set of Whistler lithographs has probably been here for some time, and we are only informed of it today.”

  “The medals and the lithographs were instantly accepted with the institution’s thanks,” said Custis, deriding Haviz with a look. “It was felt it would be time enough to mention them in due course of the museum’s affairs. But the statue of Diana!” He turned his look upon Sheerness. “That is another matter; it calls for a consultation, Mr. Sheerness; it’s a thing demanding the opinion of more than one man.”

  There was a frown upon the face of Sheerness; something snarling was in his expression; Duddington, observing him casually, felt the sudden ferocity of a beast in his attitude.

  “Well?” said the man.

  Custis went nearer to the silver figure. He passed a hand over it; he peered at it with appraising eyes; an exultation seemed to fill him.

  “I’ve heard you spoken of as an astute man,” said Custis, “of keen observation and ready perception. Your judgment, Mr. Sheerness, has always been considered fair. And your knowledge of antique art, while not extensive, is usually regarded as respectable.”

  “You have something in your mind, Custis,” said Sheerness, coldly. “Don’t hesitate. What is it? The Artemis? Speak out.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” said Custis, “that this figure cost you a great deal of money to locate and much more to secure.” Again he put his hand over his mouth and stood looking at Sheerness as though trying to hide the laugh that was there, but really, as Duddington noted, to accentuate it. “But, for all that, it is spurious.”

  The eyes of Sheerness were like cold agates seen through narrow slits.

  “What damned nonsense is this?” he said.

  “In the language of the street,” said Custis, “the statue is a fake. Mr. Chalmers,” nodding toward the fat young man, “is acquainted with the Greek handicraft of this particular period; he’s done a small book upon the silversmiths of the first half century after Christ. He, I think, will bear me out if he examines this piece carefully.”

  But Duddington shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’d rather not concern myself in the affairs of this gentleman,” he said. “If you want support for your contention, Custis, hire it. I’ve no doubt you can secure a dozen experts within an hour to uphold anything you say.”

  Custis smiled his disagreeable smile; his narrow, crooked body writhed in enjoyment.

  “I do not need support,” he said. “My own judgment, if necessary, is enough for me. The statue is a counterfeit,” he said to Sheerness. “The situation is to be deplored, sir, but the fact is you have been swindled.”

  Sheerness looked at him with his usual deliberate coldness.

  “Custis,” he said, “you are talking like a fool!”

  But Custis sniggered and gesticulated.

  “A clever rascal had you in hand that time,” he said, hugely pleased. “A master of craft, I’d say, sir; for he’s taken you in completely.”

  Sheerness took out a fine handkerchief and unfolded it; he wiped his forehead, and put it back in his pocket.

  “I know from past experience, Custis,” he said, “that it is impossible to reason with you when you have once made up your mind. But I have unquestioned proof that this figure once stood in the temple of Ephesus, itself. It can be traced back without a break in its history.”

  “The person you dealt with was a master rascal. He not only shut your eyes but sealed them. At your trade of money-making, Mr. Sheerness, you’d be a hard man to fool; but in things like this you are a child. This swindler wrapped you around his finger.”

  “You like an opportunity to mock anyone who does not agree with you, Custis. And like most men in your trade it pleases you to parade your knowledge. But in this matter I deny your learning, and I resent your manner. More than that,” and Sheerness’s voice was hard, and his face set, “not another thing will this institution receive from me.” He moved toward the door opening into the office. “Not another thing.”

  “I am extremely sorry,” grinned Custis. “But, of course, what must be, will be.” Sheerness angrily passed through the office and out into the corridor, and Custis stood smiling at Haviz and Duddington. “A fraud!” he said. “A fraud that wouldn’t have taken in any but an arrogant ass. I dare say Mr. Sheerness, with his money and his way of buying, has been victimized more than once. But he’s been able to hide it. This time, however, he’ll not be. I’ll take care the newspapers get it; we’ll have the spurious figure photographed on the front page; the chagrined millionaire will be shown next to it,” He sniggered, his eyes full of gratified malice. “That will stir him up, I think. Newspaper attention of that sort seldom fails.”

  Duddington walked into the office; the others followed.

  “Is that all you desired of us?” he said, looking with aversion at Cus
tis. “Have you brought me back to the hot city merely to witness someone’s possible discomfiture?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” said Custis. “Why, man, there are thousands who’d have given their right hands to see the look on his face when I told him he’d been made a fool of.”

  Duddington put on his straw hat and picked up his stick.

  “Well, I wish you’d sent for one or two of them and left me out of it,” he said. “I don’t appreciate your little mannerisms, Custis, and that I tell you as plainly as I can.”

  He nodded to Haviz and went into the outer office; his examination of the silver figure, which was thick with dust, had soiled his hands, and he washed them at a stand in a corner. While doing so he spoke to the girl at the desk.

  “How are you feeling, Mona?” he said.

  “Not very well, Mr. Chalmers,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “You look sort of worn out,” he said. “You should get more air. It’s a pity Alma couldn’t get to Brittany this summer and take you with her.”

  She smiled, wanly.

  “I’ll be having my vacation soon,” she said; “that’ll help me.” Her eyes looked strange, and the thin hands fumbled with a sheet of paper she was trying to get into the typewriter. “Alma will be with me then.”

  “That’s good,” said Duddington. “And when you go, Mona, forget everything having to do with work. You’ve been going it too hard for the last year or so.”

  “I’ll have a good rest. You shall see,” nodding at him, smiling, but with an effort. “I’ll do very well. And by the end of September I’ll be back, strong and ready to go on again.”

  Duddington passed out into the corridor. He saw Billy Gregory there, sketching at a table. It was now quite near to the closing hour; a group stood before The Syndic’s Daughter; then he heard a voice at his elbow and, turning, saw Marsh.

  “You are here late, Mr. Chalmers,” the man said. “Much later than you usually are when you visit the museum.”