Читать книгу Laura - Vera Caspary - Страница 13

Chapter 7

On Wednesday afternoon, twenty-four hours after the funeral, Lancaster Corey came to see me. I found him contemplating my porcelains lustfully.

“Corey, my good fellow, to what do I owe this dispensation?”

We wrung each other’s hands like long-lost brothers.

“I’ll not mince words, Waldo. I’ve come on business.”

“I smelled sulphur and brimstone. Have a drink before you reveal your diabolical schemes.”

He twisted the end of his white, crisp mustache. “I’ve got a great opportunity for you, my good friend. You know Jacoby’s work. Getting more valuable every day.”

I made a sound with my lips.

“It’s not that I’m trying to sell you a picture. As a matter of fact, I’ve already got a buyer. You know Jacoby’s portrait of Laura Hunt . . . several of the papers carried reproductions after the murder. Tragic, wasn’t it? Since you were so attached to the lady, I thought you’d want to bid before . . .”

“I knew there was something divine about your visit, Corey. Now I see that it’s your insolence.”

He shrugged off the insult. “Merely a courtesy.”

“How dare you?” I shouted. “How dare you come to my house and coolly offer me that worthless canvas? In the first place, I consider it a bad imitation of Speicher. In the second place, I deplore Speicher. And in the third, I loathe portraits in oil.”

“Very well. I shall feel free to sell it to my other buyer.” He snatched up his Fedora.

“Wait a minute,” I commanded. “How can you offer what you don’t own? That picture is hanging on the wall of her apartment now. She died with out a will, the lawyers will have to fight it out.”

“I believe that Mrs. Treadwell, her aunt, is assuming responsibility for the family. You might communicate with her or with Salsbury, Haskins, Warder, and Bone, her attorneys. The landlord, I heard this morning, had released the estate from its obligation to fulfill the lease on condition that the apartment is vacated by the first of the month. They’re going to make a special effort to hurry the proceedings . . .”

His knowledge infuriated me. “The vultures gather!” I shouted, smacking my forehead with an anguished palm. And a moment later cried out in alarm: “Do you know what arrangements have been made for her other things? Whether there’s to be a sale?”

“This bid came through a private channel. Someone who had seen the portrait in her apartment, no doubt, made inquiries of several dealers. He hadn’t known that we were Jacoby’s agents . . .”

“His taste makes it clear that he knows very little about painting.”

Corey made a purse of his lips. “Everyone is not as prejudiced as you are, Waldo. I prophesy the day when Jacoby will be worth real money.”

“Comfort yourself, my sweet buzzard. Both you and I shall be dead by that time. But tell me,” I continued mockingly, “is your prospective sucker some connoisseur who saw the picture in the Sunday tabloids and wants to own the portrait of a murder victim?”

“I do not believe that it would be strictly ethical to give my customer’s name.”

“Your pardon, Corey. My question must have shocked your delicate sensibilities of a business man. Unfortunately I shall have to write the story without using names.”

Lancaster Corey responded like a hunting dog to the smell of rabbit. “What story?”

“You have just given me material for a magnificent piece!” I cried, simulating creative excitement. “An ironic small story about the struggling young painter whose genius goes unrecognized until one of his sitters is violently murdered. And suddenly he, because he had done her portrait, becomes the painter of the year. His name is not only on the lips of collectors, but the public, the public, Corey, know him as they know Mickey Rooney. His prices skyrocket, fashionable women beg to sit for him, he is reproduced in Life, Vogue, Town and Country . . .”

My fantasy so titivated his greed that he could no longer show pride. “You’ve got to mention Jacoby’s name. The story would be meaningless without it.”

“And a footnote, no doubt, explaining that his works are on view in the galleries of Lancaster Corey.”

“That wouldn’t hurt.”

I spoke bitterly. “Your point of view is painfully commercial. Such considerations never enter my mind. Art, Corey, endures. All else passes. My piece would be as vivid and original as a Jacoby portrait.”

“Just include his name. One mention of it,” Corey pleaded.

“That inclusion would remove my story from the realms of literature and place it in the category of journalism. In that case, I’d have to know the facts, even if I did not include all of them. To protect my reputation for veracity, you understand.”

“You’ve won,” Corey admitted and whispered the art-lover’s name.

I sank upon the Biedermeier, laughing as I had not laughed since Laura had been here to share such merry secrets of human frailty.

Along with this genial and amusing tidbit, Corey had, however, brought some distressing information. As soon as I had got rid of him, I changed my clothes, seized hat and stick, and bade Roberto summon a taxi.

Hence to Laura’s apartment, where I found not only Mrs. Treadwell, whom I had expected to find there, but Shelby and the Pomeranian. Laura’s aunt was musing on the value of the few genuinely antique pieces, Shelby taking inventory, and the dog sniffing chair legs.

“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” cried Mrs. Treadwell, who, in spite of expressing open disapproval of my friendship with her niece, had always fluttered before my fame.

“To cupidity, dear lady. I have come to share the booty.”

“This is a painful task.” She sank back into an upholstered chair watching, through heavily blackened lashes, my every movement and glance. “But my lawyer simply insists.”

“How generous of you!” I chattered. “You can spare yourself no pains. In spite of grief and sentiment, you carry on bravely. I dare say you’ll account for every button in poor Laura’s wardrobe.”

A key turned in the lock. We assumed postures of piety as Mark entered.

“Your men let us in, Mr. McPherson,” explained Mrs. Treadwell. “I called your office, but you weren’t in. I hope there’s nothing wrong about our . . . our attempt to bring order. Poor Laura was so careless, she never knew what she owned.”

“I gave orders to let you in if you came,” Mark told her. “I hope you’ve found everything as it should be.”

“Someone has been in the closet. One of the dresses has fallen off the hook and perfume was spilled.”

“The police are heavy-handed,” was my innocent observation.

Mark, I thought, took extra pains to appear nonchalant.

“There’s nothing of great value,” Mrs. Treadwell remarked. “Laura would never put her money into things that lasted. But there are certain trinkets, souvenirs that people might appropriate for sentimental reasons.” She smiled so sweetly in my direction that I knew she suspected the reason for my presence.

I took direct action. “Perhaps you know, Mrs. Treadwell, that this vase did not belong to Laura.” I nodded toward the mercury glass globe upon the mantel. “I’d merely lent it to her.”

“Now, Waldo, don’t be naughty. I saw you bring that vase on Christmas, all tied up in red ribbons. You must remember, Shelby.”

Shelby looked up as if he had not heard the argument. The role of innocence, he knew by experience, would protect him equally from my wit and her revenge. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t hear what you were saying.” He returned to his inventories.

“Not ribbons, dear lady. There was a string tied to my Christmas package. Laura wasn’t to give it away. You know that Spanish prodigality of hers, handing things to anyone who admired them. This vase is part of my collection and I intend to take it now. That’s quite in order, don’t you think, McPherson?”