She rattled on about Roger Carroll’s past and Murdock got a picture that was new to him. Of a youth with talent who had in his University days been a favorite of Andrada’s and who, liking a good time and having ideas of his own, had frittered away that talent for a while by indulging in fads and making bad copies of Cezanne and doing more talking than painting. A small inheritance had hindered rather than helped him, coming as it did at the wrong time, and he had gone to Europe and finally, when that money was nearly gone, he had resorted to the black-market transactions that had eventually landed him in jail.
“Though he did learn something,” Louise said. “The realism of the early primitives he saw in Northern Italy made quite an impression. You could notice it in the sketches he made in Rome and Naples, and since he’s been back—”
She stopped when the waiter came back. She cleared the coffee table for his tray and watched him go down an inner hall and open a pantry door.
“What I mean,” she said, “is that he’s just been painting one thing after another this past month. I’ve seen some of them. I think they’re good—not that I know anything about it. But I actually do. He even had some hung in some gallery here. DeRand or some such name.”
“I agree,” Gould said.
“Did you stop in at the exhibition?”
“No, but I’ve seen some of his stuff.”
Murdock watched the waiter come back with a bottle of Old Grand-Dad and one of Black Label. Watrous said that would be all and thanks; then he got up and busied himself with the fixing of drinks.
“I think they’re good too,” Murdock said.
“What?” Louise said. “Oh, you mean Roger’s things?”
Murdock described the water-front scene he had liked. He said it reminded him of T-wharf and he thought it was very effective.
“I remember it,” Gould said. “I stopped in a couple of days ago and he had two others I liked even better. One was a blue number—a farm valley. The other was a stream and some pine trees. Reminded me of spots I’ve seen on the Charles.”
Murdock said he liked those too and Louise said, “All right, then, what’re you waiting for, a fire sale? Why don’t you buy one?… Scotch please, Carl, and light.… No, I mean it—I know Roger hasn’t any money and you could afford it, Barry.” She glanced at Murdock and smiled. “And I imagine you could too.”
Gould grinned at her. He reached for a pipe and hauled out a striped silk pouch, glancing at Murdock and holding the grin as he filled the bowl.
“Maybe I could,” he said. “Either one of those two I mentioned would be about the right size for the place I have in mind. How much do you think he’d want for one?”
“Well, certainly not too much,” Louise said. “I imagine you could get one for seventy-five or a hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollars?” Carl Watrous straightened, the Scotch bottle in his hand. “And this guy has talent?”
“You keep out of this,” Louise said with amused severity. “I’ll get to you later.… Yes,” she said to Gould. “Of course, I’m only guessing.”
“I’ll say you are,” Watrous said.
Louise ignored him. “I know he hasn’t been selling anything—except some illustrations for some catalogues an advertising agency was getting out. And that made Uncle Albert furious too. As if Roger didn’t have to eat.”
Gould chuckled at her earnestness. He said she ought to get a commission and be Carroll’s regular agent. “I’ll stop in tomorrow—if he’s out of the pokey—and see what he wants for his stuff.”
Watrous passed drinks to Murdock and Gould and took his own to a chair. When he glanced up, Louise was watching him. “And you,” she said, practically shaking her finger at him. “You pay fifteen or twenty thousand for some painting because someone else says it’s good. You had talent too—though it was a long time before anyone could find out what it was—and I suppose you’ve forgotten the times when you didn’t have a quarter to buy a copy of Variety.”
Watrous grinned and his face was a little flushed. “You must be talking about the time when I handled the Three Blonde Notes.”
Louise laughed. She put her head back and let it come out loud and quick, accenting the normal huskiness in her voice. She nearly spilled her drink and had to set it on the tray. When she could she said:
“We did all right too.”
“You did. I don’t know about the other two. They really were sisters, weren’t they? Carnaski. Wasn’t that the name?”
Louise said that was it and Gould, glancing from her to Watrous, said to him, “Oh, you were an agent once?”
“Agent, orchestra leader, pianist, play reader.” Watrous chuckled, his pale-blue eyes almost obscured by wrinkles surrounding them. “When I knew Louise I was working for a flesh peddler named Myer. Sam Myer. He must have been a hundred and twenty years old.”
He pushed his legs out, crossed the ankles, and put his head back on the chair, watching the ceiling while his grin lingered. “I got twenty bucks a week,” he said, “and a bonus for any new talent I dug up. He also used to have a play-reading department. That was me.” His voice was distant-sounding now and no longer harsh or loud.
“One day they found him dead in bed and I bought the business—what there was—from some niece in Chicago for twenty-five hundred bucks, two-fifty down. It was a good buy at that. If I hadn’t kept his office I’d never seen the script of Thursday Nights Off and—”
“We know,” Louise said. “Stick to the point.”
Watrous lifted his head so he could look at her. Then he shook it, his teeth showing through his grin. “All right,” he said, “quit needling me. I’ll buy one of his lousy pictures.”
Louise was smilingly triumphant. She finished her drink. “No more, thanks,” she said when Gould reached for her glass. “They are not lousy,” she said. “They are really very good—as if you’d know, Carl.”
Murdock listened and enjoyed his drink and found what he heard amusing. It gave him a chance to observe Louise, and the way she talked and smiled with her red, mobile mouth, and the way she gestured with her large, well-shaped hands. He had been aware last night that she had a slight accent, not too pronounced but enough to prove she had lived abroad. Now, talking with Watrous like this, there wasn’t so much of the accent; she was like any American woman who had been around and knew how to express herself and still go along with a gag.
And Watrous—he was amusing too. He had a slangy, tough way of talking but he didn’t do it out of the corner of his mouth. He took Louise’s kidding in stride and seemed to enjoy it and he made no effort to impress one with his success. His sense of humor was resilient and he laughed easily but in repose his face was craggy, rugged, and the pale eyes alert and observant and you had the feeling that there was something inside his huskiness that could be solid and hard and formidable when the occasion demanded.
Speculating about this side of the man, Murdock thought of something else. He didn’t want to because, for the moment, he liked just sitting and being amused. Then, regretfully, he knew he must and approached the matter obliquely.
“How did you get started collecting paintings?” he asked idly. “Do you know much about it?”
“Not much.” Watrous shrugged one shoulder. “A little now maybe but not at first. It’s funny what you do when you get a chunk of quick dough that you can call your own. I started three years ago before taxes got so tough. I was walking around in a dinner jacket then and sometimes a white tie and tails. I’d go in these homes and apartments and the host would point out some canvas that meant nothing to me and brag.
“‘Got a new Renoir. Picked it up quite reasonable too. What do you think of it, Carl? Effective, what?’ And some other guy—you know, maybe he was a bum five years ago but struck it lucky, some actor or producer—would show me his new Bellows. Or he’d say, ‘Take this Eakins, Carl. I got it for ten grand and I’ve turned down fifteen.’”
Watrous gulped down his drink. “What the hell! I
knew those guys. I had as much dough as they did. So I get a pigeon that knows his way around and lay about forty thousand on the line and get myself a start. I get eight oils for that. I get a Benton, an early Sloan, a Homer, a Van Gogh, a Rubens, and three Frenchmen. And you know”—he paused to glance at Gould and Louise and now he was in earnest—“you put things like that in your place and you get to like them. They dress up the joint. You want another and another. And always you know if you get the McCoy you can get your chips back if the breaks get bad. Funny, isn’t it?”
“For a man who never read anything but Variety and the Racing Form, yes,” Louise said.
Watrous ignored the crack. He had not finished with his own discourse. “I don’t know what it is. I started because it was something to do and I got annoyed by these guys showing off and being superior with me—a guy who knew ’em when. But after I got some things of my own I got pretty proud too.”
He grinned, as though aware that he was being a little too serious. “You’d be surprised how those paintings impress the dolls. Other people too. Hell, you come to my house and I’ll give you the same routine I used to get. If you look at my pictures you have to take my patter with it. ‘Now take that Rubens,’ I’ll say. ‘Ten thousand, it cost me. Of course it’s not one of his good ones or I wouldn’t have got it for that price, but it’s interesting, don’t you think? And this Corot. One of the late ones, you understand, and not nearly as good as his earlier things, but still nice.’”
“Get him,” Louise said and Gould laughed and so did Watrous.
“Did you ever see George Damon’s collection?” Murdock said.
Watrous was reaching for the Scotch. He stopped, glanced at Murdock, and pulled his glance away.
“No,” he said. “I understand the stuff he’s got would make a piker out of me.” He poured some whisky. “Why?” He looked at Murdock while he waited for his answer.
“I just wondered,” Murdock said. He stepped to the coffee table and put down his glass and then, ignoring Watrous, said, “Let’s go somewhere where I can buy a drink. You can go for a little while, can’t you, Louise?”
“Talk to her, Murdock,” Watrous said. “It’s a good idea. Sure she can go.”
“But—it wouldn’t be decent,” Louise protested. “The funeral is tomorrow morning.… Oh, Barry. I think Gail would like it if you’d come. Would you? At ten?”
Barry Gould said he’d like to and Watrous said, “Come on, Louise. Nobody in town knows you anyway. What the hell, let’s get a little life into the party instead of all this reminiscing.”
“We could go to the Silver Door,” Murdock said.
“I couldn’t,” Louise said. “Really.”
“Nuts.” Watrous tossed off his Scotch without adding water. “You don’t have to dance. We can get some quiet corner—”
“Not at the Silver Door, you can’t,” Gould said.
“You mean the band is loud?” Watrous said. “One of those noisy spots? Then that’s for me. That way I can’t listen to Louise telling me she’s got to have a bigger part in Havana Honeymoon. Come on, sweetheart, you know you’ll love it.”
While Watrous was talking Murdock had walked over to a short mink coat that lay on the window seat. Now he came back with it and held it for Louise. She sighed and stood up. She looked into Murdock’s eyes and there was an enigmatic smile deep in her own. She let him see it for three seconds, then turned and slipped into the coat.
Chapter Nine
AT THE SILVER DOOR
THE SILVER DOOR had a small, two-toned neon sign over the marquee and got its name from the silver metallic paint on the old wooden door. The same paint decorated the walls of the long low room inside and the front of the bar, and the short, tight-bodiced costumes of the cigarette girl and the hat-check girl that took your coat—not the one behind the counter who kept things straight—also carried out the motif.
Barry Gould had begged off in spite of Watrous’s protests, reminding Murdock that he’d said he had some writing to do. So they had dropped him at the Courier-Herald and now, while Watrous slipped a bill to the head-waiter, Murdock said he’d like to make a phone call. When Watrous and Louise followed the headwaiter, he stepped into the telephone booth.
“I’m at the Silver Door,” he said when Jack Fenner answered.
“That trap?” said Fenner. “Is the doll with you?”
“She is,” Murdock said. “Come in and stand at the bar until I get a chance to talk to you.”
“Will do,” Fenner said.
The Silver Door’s main room was made up of a bar along the left wall and a lot of tiny tables which were supposed to accommodate up to four people. Beyond this was a tiny dance floor and the orchestra shell, and along each side of the floor was one row of larger tables. Carl Watrous was just sitting down at one of these and Murdock joined him.
“I ordered Scotch for you,” Watrous said. “Louise is you know where.”
He offered a gold cigarette case and flame from a gold lighter and put both on the table. By that time the orchestra, an eight-piece combination which had been filing in when Murdock entered, slammed into an arrangement that might have been My Ideal. Watrous looked at Murdock and grinned.
“Wait’ll Louise starts to talk against that,” he said happily. “That’s competition.”
Murdock let his glance move about the room. He saw a couple of familiar faces without being able to put names to them and he noticed that one of the bartenders was a fellow he used to know. A scarred-jawed little man named Steve. He was watching him when he saw someone approach the table.
“Hello, Maury,” Watrous said, and shook hands. “Meet Mr. Murdock—Maury Trask. Sit down.”
Maury shook his head, a florid-faced head with flabby jowls. “I got those two guys over here.”
“What two guys?” Watrous wanted to know.
“The two that did the lyrics for Two Girls From Frisco.”
Watrous scowled and his craggy face looked hard again.
“You said to get them and see what kind of a deal we could make,” Maury pleaded. “If you want ’em, talk to ’em. I got ’em up from New York on the six o’clock. I was going over the stuff with them and see you in the morning but they recognized you and if you don’t talk to them they’re liable to get the idea—”
“Okay, okay.” Watrous got up. “I’ll talk to them.” He looked at Murdock. “This is how I get to buy paintings by Degas,” he said. “Tell Louise I’m talking business.”
He started off to a corner table with Maury hanging to his arm and talking with his other hand. Then Louise came swinging up from the other direction. She was watching Watrous when Murdock rose and her frown made wrinkles in her brow.
“What’s he doing?”
Murdock said Watrous was talking business. “Show business, I guess.” He took her coat and slipped it over the back of the chair.
She was in no hurry to sit down. She knew how she looked standing up and she was giving the customers a break and Murdock noticed that even the women—some of them at least—watched her with interest.
He saw she was watching him. He could not tell whether her green eyes were quizzical or amused, but he could not help but be impressed by what he saw. She half faced him so he got some of the profile and her head was slightly tipped back and her shoulders were high. It only lasted a second but that was enough to show him that her plain black dress with its high neckline, which might have seemed demure on others, was so nicely filled with Louise that it was actually more revealing than the low-cut gown she had worn the night before. He grinned and said the first thing that popped into his mind.
“You know, you’d make a good show girl.”
Louise sat down and looked down at herself. She was still smiling. “I was a show girl,” she said. “I don’t know how good.” She mentioned two musical comedies popular a half dozen years ago. “Sang a little too,” she said. “In a trio. That’s what Carl was kidding me about. The Three Blonde Notes. That’s h
ow I got to England.”
The waiter came with the three drinks and Louise took some of hers. She started to speak and could hardly hear herself and moved her chair a little closer. She put her elbows on the table and leaned his way and he leaned toward her until their shoulders touched and then she was telling him about a company that had gone to London and how, when the run was finished, some of them had been booked on the Continent.
“We wound up in Italy a few months before Mussolini’s stab in the back,” she said. “That was when I met Don.”
She hesitated, distance in her glance and her smile gone. “I didn’t particularly like the idea of marrying an Italian and it looked like trouble in Italy but it seemed better than coming back here to nothing. I had no family, unless you’d call an uncle in Nebraska family, and Don had money and position and—”
The words trailed off. She looked at him and the smile came back. “Italians like blondes,” she said. “Don sort of went overboard for me and when I found out he really meant it—well, a girl has to do what she can for herself, doesn’t she?”
Murdock knew the answer was yes, particularly in Louise’s case. He’d known others like Louise, not all so generously endowed by nature nor with the opportunity and money to make the most of their endowments. Some had more ability perhaps, others had not had her opportunities; but underneath they were quite like Louise.
Louise would look out for Louise, all right. She’d been around and she’d found out life is not always good and kind. She knew the meek had two strikes on them and she had made up her mind early that the person to worry about Louise was Louise. She was beautiful and she was fun to be with but he had an idea there was perhaps more selfishness and wilfulness in her make-up than in some.
“Donoto Andrada,” he said and his lean face was suddenly grave as his thoughts turned back. “Donoto was the middle brother. Angelo had information the Nazis wanted and he died because of it. Bruno was the youngest. He got through the Allied lines. I think Bruno had something to do with getting a release from the Badoglio Government for the shipment of paintings that came the other day.”
Jade Venus Page 9