The Monet Murders (17 page)

“That the theft of the painting is a separate matter entirely. Yes. Very clean. Very simple.”

“As for the FBI, I worked with them on that other case, so they're willing to vouch for me.”

“I know. I checked before agreeing to see you. I hope you don't mind.”

“I would have done the same thing.”

“Yes. A mere precaution.”

“Somewhere there's a genuine Monet floating around. I was hoping this was it, of course. But I figured that would be too good to be true.”

“Yes, unfortunately. Whoever did this has talent; I won't deny that. But there is a vast difference between talent and genius. One is a Model T, the other a Bugatti. Both run on petrol, but the similarities end there. I should know. I have talent, but nothing beyond, I'm afraid. I'm talking about my own painting, you understand.”

“Better than nothing. To be talented, I mean.”

“Yes, of course. Still, when one spends one's life teaching people about the elements of genius, one becomes all that much more aware of one's own shortcomings. Now and then it can be depressing. You'll notice I don't have any of my paintings here in the office. I can't stand to look at them for very long.”

“You seem to have done all right, otherwise,” I said, gesturing to the fine fixtures of his office.

“Well, yes. No doubt. As an artist I have discipline, ability, and energy, and I have that single prerequisite to a happy career in the arts—a reliable private income. Still, I know I'll never produce anything so good as the original of this painting.”

“I assume copying a masterpiece is significantly easier than creating one.”

“Of course. You have the detailed blueprint in front of you.”

“I don't suppose you recognize anything about this forgery that might suggest who did it.”

“Nothing at all, I'm afraid. It could be any of a thousand artists, assuming the deceased Lothario did not do it. There are some well-known master forgers loose in the world, mostly in Europe. But I doubt it was one of those. They would have done a better job.”

“If I showed you examples of other paintings by some artists, original paintings, could you detect any similarities of technique. . . ?”

“That might enable me to deduce that the same man painted both? I doubt it. After all, the forger was trying to copy Monet's technique, not adapt his own.”

“I see.”

“But I'd be willing to have a go at it, if you like.”

“Can't hurt.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Well, I won't take up any more of your time, Professor.”

“Call me Bunny, if you like. I know it takes a little getting used to.”

“All right . . . Bunny.”

“And what shall I call you? Surely not Bruno.”

“Well, my real name is Thomas Parke D'Invilliers, so I guess you could call me Tom.”

He looked at me and smiled knowingly.

“Thomas Parke D'Invilliers, eh? Interesting name. I have the feeling that I've run across it before, somewhere. Is that possible, do you think?”

“I don't know. It's possible, I suppose.” From the amused look in his eye, I knew I had put my foot in it.

“Yes. I'm sure I've seen it,” he said. “I know! It's quoted as an epigraph to a novel.
The Great Gatsby
. Do you know it?”

“Vaguely. I read it when it came out a few years ago.”

“No one reads it these days, of course. But I rather like it. A little overwrought in places, but not disastrously so. Now, how does that epigraph go?” He got up and started looking through his bookshelves, and in a few moments found the volume he was looking for. “Here it is.
The Great Gatsby
. And the epigraph reads:
Then wear the gold hat if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry ‘Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!'
Words to live by, eh?”

“I suppose so, in one sense.”

“The author is identified as Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. That's you! Did you give that line to the author, what's his name—Fitzgerald?”

“No. Of course not. It's obviously a coincidence. I remember wondering about it when I first saw it.”

“Yes. Anyone would wonder about that. Of course, D'Invilliers is a common name, to say nothing of Thomas and Parke. It's easy to see how the coincidence could occur.”

I have to admit I could feel my face getting red.

“No need for blushes, Tom,” he said, with a friendly smile. “We all have our little secrets.
The human heart has hidden treasures, in secret kept, in silence sealed
. That's Charlotte Brontë. Know her?”

“No, we've never met,” I said, trying to regain a straight face. “Does she live around here?”

He laughed at the joke, politely.

“Well, we will peel the onion of your various identities until some day we may perhaps arrive at your real name. Not that it matters. After all, ‘what's in a name?'”

“Four roses would smell as sweet.”

“Good God. Surely you don't drink that vile stuff.”

“Only when there's nothing else.”

“Well, you must come to my place for dinner some evening. I can give you something better.”

“Thanks. I'd like that.” That was true. Bunny had charm to spare, and it was so natural that it worked even on someone like me. Besides, he was interesting and knew things that I didn't know. Getting to know him better would be fun.

“Bring someone along if you like. I intend to have company too, and a foursome is always more pleasant.”

“Thank you. I will.” Myrtle would like him too, and there was something about him that said he would never poach on a friend's territory. It was not “the done thing.”

“Good. That's settled then. I'll call your office with date and time. Now, be so kind as to take some of these damned macaroons with you, will you? My dog will never know, and besides he's getting much too fat.”

It was getting close to cocktail hour by the time I got to my car and wound my way back to the Ocean Highway. I turned north into the traffic and headed for Malibu. A cold Stella Artois, a swim, and a shower, followed by fresh fish grilled on the beach, some chilled wine, and an evening with Myrtle all added up to a hard-to-beat program.

When I pulled close to her driveway, I saw the red-and-gray Duesenberg parked outside her door. It had the look of having been there for a while. I don't mind admitting to a sudden pang of jealousy. Or maybe it was sadness. Certainly
I felt a little deflated. I waited a few minutes to see if that guy, I'd forgotten his name, was just leaving. Maybe he was dropping her off after acting class. Then I waited a few more minutes, and still nothing seemed to be stirring. After a while, I noticed that the wait had stretched to almost half an hour.

Life seems to come in half-hour chunks, I thought—both the good and the bad. This was one of the bad chunks. I had no claims on her, of course. I had even told her that some day she would meet the man of her dreams. Yes, I had told her all that, but that doesn't mean I
meant
it.

When the sun started to dip into the ocean, I started the engine and headed south, back to the Garden of Allah, wondering if Myrtle's young Lochinvar had finally “come out of the west” driving a Duesenberg. It kind of looked that way.

I had forgotten that I needed to get ahold of Catherine Moore and arrange for the next day's meeting with Manny Stairs. I remembered all this as I drove back to Sunset Boulevard, hoping that Catherine had followed my advice about the hotel. It would save me a trip out to the
Lucky Lady
, and I wasn't in the mood for a boat ride just then: I was in the mood for a gin and tonic.

The usual crowd of inebriants was gathered around the pool, and the usual bevy of starlets was splashing joyfully in the water, doing what they could to attract attention and succeeding. I checked to see if Catherine was in there with them, but she wasn't. As soon as I'd had my drink, I'd check with the front desk to see if she was registered.

My friend Hobey, the writer, was sitting by himself at a table; he was cradling a drink and peering into it as though it were a crystal ball. I guess in some ways gin had answers for him, although you couldn't be sure they were the right answers. He looked up and saw me and waved at me to join him.

“You look a little down in the dumps,” he said. “Have a drink.”

“Thanks. I will. And I am, I suppose.”

“Women, eh?”

“Does it show?”

“Kind of.”

“It'll pass.” It always had, although some took longer than others. Hobey didn't look so chipper himself, and I mentioned it to him.

“Oh, it's just the usual thing with this writing game.”

“Producers driving you crazy?”

“No, not this time. I'm working on a novel. Just about finished with it, but now and then I get stuck.”

“Does drinking help?”

“Not really. But neither does not drinking.”

“What's the book about?”

“About a man with a difficult wife.”

“Should appeal to a wide audience.”

“I hope so. But how would you know? Are you married?”

“No. But I read a lot.”

“A wise policy. Vicarious misery is much better than the real thing. Well, I hope you will read this one, if I ever get it finished.”

“I look forward to it. What's it called?”

“I don't know yet. I always save that bit for last. I'll dig up something. Maybe a quote. Bartlett's is always good for finding titles.”

We sat drinking in silence for a few minutes. I was still a little confused by what I had seen at Myrtle's place. I was trying to sort through what I really felt about it, but I wasn't having much luck.

But after a few moments I said to my companion in mild misery: “Do you remember that story I told you about the producer who fell in love with the woman who was a dead ringer for his former wife?”

“Sure. It's a good story. I've been toying with it a little. Maybe that's why I'm having trouble finishing up the other thing.”

“Well, look over yonder and you will see the woman herself, coming this way.”

He looked across the way, squinted, and drew in his breath.

“Why, it's Minnie David,” he said, astonished. “I mean, her exact double. I knew her, you see. Lovely woman. Physically, that is. Otherwise, not so much.” He thought for a moment and then made the logical connection. “So Manny Stairs is the lovelorn producer of the story.”

“Good guess. This one's named Catherine Moore.”

“Remarkable.”

Catherine hadn't seen me. She was wearing a skimpy bathing suit the color of a California sunset, and she sat down in one of the chaises longues beside the pool. I assumed she'd bought the suit that afternoon, although she could have brought it from the
Lucky Lady
; it might have easily fit in a change purse.

“Remarkable,” he said, again.

“Would you excuse me for a while? I've got some business I need to do with her.”

“I can well imagine,” he said. “While you're at it, ask her if she'd like to meet a down-at-the-heels, formerly famous writer.”

“I think she's got her eye on a currently famous producer.”

“Can't say I blame her.”

I walked over to her, and she brightened up when she saw me. I took that as a hopeful sign. I don't know of what exactly. Maybe just that she was in a good mood and ready to hear that her secret admirer was in fact the well-known cheapskate Manny Stairs.

“Hiya, Sparky,” she said, grinning playfully. “You were right. This is an interesting place.”

“Glad you like it.”

“I saw Francis X. Bushman in the lobby.”

“That must've been a treat.”

“He looked old.”

“That happens. And in Hollywood it happens faster than anywhere else.”

“So, what's up? When do I get to meet the mystery man?”