The Monet Murders (29 page)

“You gotta admit,” said Della, “Perry's got a point.”

“What about the cops? As soon as that burglar alarm wire gets cut, they'll be there in no time.”

“Maybe. But that's a problem for real burglars who are thrashing around trying to find the good stuff. That takes a little time. You already know what you're looking to do. In and out, no problem. A minute or two. No more. A cop with a rocket on his back wouldn't get there in time.”

“It sounds all right,” said Della, after smiling sweetly at Perry and firing up a Pall Mall. “There's just one possible hitch. Won't it seem like too big a coincidence that someone robs the house so soon after someone checked the security system?”

“It's a thought,” said Perry.

“I agree,” I said. “But we've got a pretty iron-clad story set up with the Yankee Re-Insurance company. Besides, the
silverware is the only thing anyone will notice is missing. After we switch the paintings, we have to assume that no one will see the difference.”

“You got a point there,” said Perry. “Which means it's all the more important to take the silver.” He smiled, beatifically, at Della.

“So, I think it's a risk we can afford to take,” I said. “And if we find what I think we'll find when we get the painting, Watson will be too busy explaining his own actions to worry about who put his shorts in the wringer and how they did it.”

That sounded good, I thought. But I knew the risk was real.

“I have one last question,” said Myrtle. “We're all assuming that the painting is a forgery and that Watson knows that, because he has sold the real one. But what if we're wrong? What if the painting is genuine? What do we do with it then?”

“Well, as my friend Manny Stairs once said, we'll jump off that bridge when we come to it.”

Deep down, though, I knew she had a real point. If the thing turned out to be real, we'd be quite literally guilty of grand larceny along with burglary, kidnapping of a Jap houseboy, and assault with a loaded wiener. That was a pretty heavy downside. The upside was, we'd have a painting worth a hundred grand. Maybe more. And no one the wiser, except, of course, for our friend Bunny Finch-Hayden. And there was something about Bunny that made me pretty sure he'd be willing to take a cut in exchange for his services. At least, he'd be approachable. And if he felt like playing ball, split five ways, there'd be plenty to go around. It was a very tempting scenario.

But Myrtle brought me back to earth.

“If it's real,” she said, “we will have to put it back.”

She didn't phrase it as a question.

Della nodded in agreement.

“Just remember, chief,” she said. “We're detectives, not art thieves. Silverware is one thing. Art is something else.”

Was it?

Perry scowled and looked disappointed.

“Women,” he said.

“Cheer up, Perry,” said Della. “A little honesty wouldn't hurt you. And, while you're in there, if you have the time, I wouldn't mind a chafing dish.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

W
e met at the house in Malibu the following night so that Myrtle and Della could give us a briefing on their visit to Chez Watson.

They weren't able to switch the paintings.

“He hovered around us the entire time we were there,” said Della. “And you know who was to blame for that,” she said, with a sly glance at Myrtle. Well, that at least showed Watson was susceptible to female beauty, something that had not been a foregone conclusion by any means, given his antics as a male model. “If he'd have gotten any closer, we'd have had to exchange vaccination records.”

“I'm sorry, miljenik,” said Myrtle.

“No problem, honey. I always figured making the switch was a long shot.”

“Question is,” said Perry, “did you get the layout? ‘Cause it looks like we're gonna have to sneak in there and make the switch.”

Della fired up a Pall Mall with her Zippo. Della was a master at the satisfying thumb flick that only a Zippo can provide.

“Yep. As soon as he got a look at Myrtle, he lost the ‘This whole thing is a pain in the ass' expression and turned on his ‘I think I'm in love' look. He gave us the grand tour of the whole house, and wasn't in any hurry about it either.”

“So you located the painting.”

“Yep. It's hanging above the mantel in what he called the drawing room, which is in the back of the house. You can get in there by some French doors that lead in from the patio and swimming pool.”

“Did he show you how the burglar alarm is set up?”

“Oh, yes. He was very proud of that. Very sophisticated. He was a smug SOB, wasn't he, Myrtle?”

“Yes. That is the word.”

“What sets off the alarm? Are there cameras?”

“He didn't mention any cameras, and we didn't see any. He turns the alarm on whenever he leaves the house or when he goes to bed for the night. Once it's on, the alarm sounds if any of the windows or doors are opened for any reason. Or if any of the wires are cut or damaged. The alarm is tied in with the local cops, and when they hear it, they get there faster than the Green Hornet. That's how he put it, anyway.”

“Did he say what that meant, exactly?”

“Three minutes. They've run some tests. Apparently this guy pulls some weight in Bel Air.”

“Where's the alarm's on/off switch?”

“By the front door, at the other end of the house. But he said there was a secret code you had to enter to activate the thing or turn it on or off.”

“Hmm.”

“I agree,” said Perry. “All that to protect a painting of flowers.”

“Don't forget the silver, Perry.”

“How could I?”

“How about the Rottweiler?”

“He's big,” said Della.

“He seemed pretty sweet, though,” said Myrtle. “I have seen many worse-looking dogs.”

“I'll tell him you said so while he's chewing on my leg,” said Perry. “Looks like there's a loaded wiener in his future.”

“Are you sure it won't hurt him?” said Myrtle.

“Pretty sure.”

“And last but not least—Hirohito,” I said. “Did you learn anything about him?”

“Yes. He's not married and lives alone in the guest house beside the pool. We met him. He was very small. Watson rang for him and introduced us. I guess because he's part of the security system.”

“Small, eh?” asked Perry. “Those wiry types can be tricky. On the other hand, if he's small, it'll make it easier to stuff him in a burlap bag for shipment to Borneo.”

“Oh, I hope that won't be necessary,” said Myrtle. “He seemed so helpless.”

“They all do, just before they stick a samurai sword in your back,” said Perry.

Perry didn't care for the Japanese.

“It was strange, though,” said Myrtle. “Something was odd about the houseboy. He seemed nervous. Ill at ease.”

“Any idea why?”

“Not really.”

“Makes you wonder,” I said. “Maybe he's an illegal. That would make him nervous around strangers who look semi-official.”

“Where is he when Watson's out? Is he inside the main house?”

“Yes. Watson goes to the office every day and out most every night, and the houseboy stays in the main house until Watson comes back. Along with the dog. And an automatic pistol. Name's Ming, by the way. The dog, not the Jap.”

“How was his English?”

“Can't say. He only barked once or twice.”

“Very funny. The houseboy.”

“He didn't talk much,” said Della. “Just did a lot of bowing.”

“I suppose there's a wall around the estate,” I said.

“Yes,” said Della, “but it's not over ten feet high.” She smiled ironically. “And when you're climbing over, be sure to mind the shards of glass that are stuck in the top. Don't drag any parts you're fond of.” She looked at Perry. “Wear your jockey shorts, dearie. Don't go like usual.”

“Swell,” said Perry. “And you want me to worry about finding a chafing dish.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess it's not impossible. Breaking in there. But it's not going to be easy. We're going to have to come up with something better than loaded wieners.”

“There is one good thing, though,” said Myrtle. “When we were finished, Watson asked me to go gambling with him. Out on the
Lucky Lady
.”

I didn't like the sound of that. “When?”

“Tomorrow night. He asked me where I was staying, but I didn't say. I acted shy, and he seemed to understand about that.”

“Don't kid yourself,” said Perry. “He didn't want to come on too strong and queer the pitch.”

“But I told him I would meet him out there. On the ship. He seemed pleased.”

“Pleased?” asked Della with a snort. “He was happier than a two-peckered puppy.”

“You can't go,” I said. “It is way too dangerous.”

“I know. Of course I won't go. But he doesn't know that, does he?” Myrtle said this with a mischievous grin, showing her one slightly crooked eyetooth. God, I hoped the Hollywood rag merchants wouldn't make her straighten that.

“What time did you arrange to meet?”

“Ten o'clock. That will give you time to get into the house, won't it?”

“Easily. And more importantly, time enough to get out.”

The way we figured it, Watson would leave his house around eight. We'd be watching from across the street to make sure he left and stayed gone. He'd drive to Santa Monica and catch the water taxi, get to the
Lucky Lady
, and cool his heels waiting for Myrtle. He wouldn't be back until at least midnight. And he'd be in a bad mood. But by then we'd be gone, one way or the other.

I woke up in the middle of the night. The clock said three
A.M.
I half remembered something my friend Hobey had said about three
A.M.
being something or other, something that wasn't any good. I knew what he meant.

Myrtle was talking in her sleep, in Croatian, as usual. It sounded like someone emptying a tray of ice cubes. But she looked wonderful saying it, whatever it meant, although her occasional whimpering let me know that her dreams troubled her, sometimes deeply. She still had bad ones more often than was good for her, or for anyone, for that matter—images and memories that she could repress during the day but not at night. It made me feel a little easier about dumping Rex Lockwood out with the marine life. I couldn't blame him for wanting her, but I couldn't blame her for killing him, not after what he did. And I really couldn't blame myself for protecting her. That had been a promise I'd made to myself. I wondered what Rex looked like, now that the fish and crabs had spent some quality time with him. It's the kind of thing you think of at three
A.M.
, which, I suppose, is what Hobey was talking about.

Anyway, as I lay there for a while listening to Myrtle and wondering what she was saying, I started worrying about what the next day might bring. The thought of breaking into Watson's house had all sorts of unpleasant knobs and sharp edges on it. The more I thought about it, the less I liked any part of it.

And then, like the sudden feeling of well-being you get with that first gin and tonic, the understanding came to me—our plan to break into Watson's house was just plain stupid. For one thing, it had next to no chance of succeeding. And even if it did—have a chance, that is—what was I going to get
out of it? What the hell did I care about any of it? What difference did it make to me whether the painting was real or not? The principal beneficiary of the knowledge was Watson, a man I didn't give a damn for and didn't particularly like. The hell with him. He could look after his own business; he had told me that in no uncertain terms. If he had removed his own painting, sold it, and replaced it with a copy made by his wife's lover—and maybe
his
lover, too—there was nothing illegal about that. Of course, insurance fraud was something else. If he put in a claim to try to double his money, I could do the Boy Scout routine and alert the insurance company. And I would, too, not because I was a real Boy Scout, but because I didn't like the guy.

So, the whole breaking-and-entering idea made no sense—which seemed so suddenly obvious, I had to wonder why I had even considered it in the first place. There was only one answer, and when I looked in my imaginary mirror, what I saw disturbed me a little. Looking back at me was a guy who all along had been half planning to acquire a valuable piece of art for his own collection—and only a temporary acquisition, at that, just until it could be sold for six figures to someone who just had to have something signed by “Monet.”

At that moment, I wasn't all that sure I liked the guy in my imaginary mirror—which is another thing that happens to you at three
A.M.

On the other hand, I could tell myself that I was really only “half planning” the caper, while the other half of me was sincerely wondering how to account for those two bodies, not counting Lockwood. Had Emily Watson really shot her lover and then committed suicide? It looked that way, but did it make sense? Emily Watson had been my client, admittedly
a brief encounter, but still there was a part of me that would like to get to the bottom of that story—if there was a bottom. I mean, if there was anything more to it than what there seemed to be on the surface. Call it professional curiosity. That's not the kind that killed the cat, is it?