The Monet Murders (31 page)

The Rottweiler was lying next to a fireplace in the main hall just beyond the entrance. He lifted his head and growled a little, but then went back to sleep. I guess he figured it was all right as long as Satchiko let us in. In the fireplace, gas flames flickered around ceramic logs; the fire was for atmosphere, not heat. There was a stuffed moose head above the
mantel. He looked serene and indifferent to his fate. I had a quick mental image of the argument between Watson and his wife when he brought that thing home. It wasn't the kind of thing she'd have liked. I imagine that like most married couples, they had made arrangements. In this case, the arrangement allowed hubby to decorate the main entrance hall like something out of Teddy Roosevelt's game room, while she spent thousands on French paintings and hung them in what they called the drawing room.

Satchiko bowed low in the approved fashion and smiled nervously.

“Not in trouble?” he asked.

“Probably not. We just want to see your visa.”

“Have here,” he said and dug in his pocket to find a wrinkled bit of paper. Apparently he kept it with him like some sort of talisman.

Perry took one look at it and winked.

“One of Blinky's better efforts,” he said to me.

Well, that figured. Of course, we didn't care whether it was legitimate or not.

“Well, Satchiko,” I said. “This
looks
real, but we still need to ask you some questions. Agent Phengfisch here will conduct the interview. Where can we have some privacy?”

“Here. In main hall. By fire. Please.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?”

“No. Just me.”

“Well, we'll see about that.”

He bowed again and led us to some overstuffed chairs near the fire.

“Now here's how this is going to work, Satchiko. Agent Phengfisch will ask you some questions. Meanwhile, I have
to have a look around the rest of the house to make sure there are no illegal aliens living here.”

“No one but me,” he said, a little alarmed. “Like I say.”

“I'm sure you're telling the truth, but we have to look anyway. It's routine. Sit there with Agent Phengfisch and answer his questions, unless you'd like to go downtown and answer them there.”

“No. No, thank you. Here better.”

“You got that right,” said Perry.

Perry sat down in a chair opposite Satchiko, who perched on the edge of his seat like a bird contemplating flight. He was sweating and looked terrified. Well, given Perry's evil grin and the fact that his papers were phony, some nervousness was understandable. I felt a little sorry for him, but we wouldn't be there very long, with luck, so his ordeal would be short.

“Agent Phengfisch, I'm going to check the rest of the house.”

“Yes, sir,” said Perry.

I headed down the hall toward the rear of the house. I could hear Perry saying “Now see here, Tojo,” but pretty soon I was poking my head into the rooms that led off the main hall. There was a library impressively stocked with leather-bound volumes and one of those curving library ladders that made me green with envy. The whole room did, in fact. I wondered whether either of the Watsons had read any of these books, or whether their decorator had simply bought them by the yard. I had been in one Hollywood mansion where the library was actually a bar, with the booze and all the fixings hidden behind the bookshelves. Of course, that had been during the recent unlamented period known as Prohibition.

Next in the hallway was Watson's office—a standard affair with leather furniture and a French Empire-style desk all
filigreed and carved and obviously expensive, but too ornate for my taste. I went in for a moment and looked through the papers on the desk, but there was nothing of any interest to me. I didn't know what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I didn't find it.

Finally I came to the drawing room, the scene of the murder and suicide. Just in case there were cameras, I slipped a silk stocking over my head before I went in. The stocking had Myrtle's scent on it, which made something in my abdomen do a happy turnover. I switched on the lights and looked at the carpet for traces of the killings, but of course there weren't any. Watson had no doubt replaced the bloody rug. Still, it gave me a queer feeling to see the place, knowing that the woman who had been in my office not very long ago had been stretched out on this very floor with a bullet in her brain. Had she really killed herself? For love? If so, what a waste. As for Wilbur, well, I hadn't known him.

As advertised, the Monet was above the mantel. I put on a pair of surgeon's rubber gloves and then carefully checked for wires that might be connected to the picture frame—wires that might be part of the security system. I couldn't see any. Thankfully, I didn't see any cameras, but that was no excuse for dawdling about making the switch.

I stood on a stool and removed the painting from above the mantel. I had the other copy in my briefcase. I fumbled a little getting the picture out of the frame, and when I replaced it with the one I'd brought, I didn't worry too much about getting all the fastenings secure in the back. One or two would hold the thing. Even so, it took a few minutes to get the painting straight and secure. While I was at it, I compared the two pictures, and for the life of me I couldn't see much, if any,
difference. Well, that was all to the good. If I couldn't tell them apart, Watson probably wouldn't notice the exchange. It would take someone like Bunny to see what made one better than the other, or at least different. It did occur to me, though, that this picture in my hand might actually be the real thing—something worth a hundred grand. And I was reminded of something Sergeant Kowalski had said—the human race seemed to be getting dumber by the year.

Finally I finished making the switch. I put the new painting in my briefcase, along with the rubber gloves and silk stocking, and then hustled back to the main hall. I was surprised to see Satchiko leaning back in his chair and smiling. Perry was also apparently in a jovial mood. Satchiko shot to his feet and bowed when he saw me, but he didn't lose his much more relaxed expression and manner. He stuck out his hand to show me his visa. At the top Perry had written: “This guy's OK. Emile Phengfisch, INS.”

“Paper good now,” said Satchiko.

“Yes. Congratulations. Welcome to America.”

“Thank you.” Another bow.

“Well, that about finishes our business here,” I said. “Now, one word of warning, Satchiko—don't mention this to anyone. The INS is a secret organization. You could get in real trouble if you tell anyone about our visit tonight. And I do mean
anyone
. Understand?”

“Yes. No tell no one.”

“Including your boss.”

“Him especially,” he said. There was something strange about the way he said that, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

“Good. Now if you'll open the gate for us, we'll be on our way.”

We shook hands and he bowed some more. And we left.

“I assume you got it,” Perry said as we were walking back to the car.

“Yep. No problem. Thanks for your help.”

“Glad to do it.”

“Seems like you and Satchiko got pretty chummy there. I'm surprised.”

“Oh, well, he seemed harmless enough. I spent a minute or so pretending to study his visa, and when I signed it, he relaxed.”

“What a nice guy you are.”

“That's what everybody says. I tell you what, though. There's something fishy going on in that house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after I signed his visa and he relaxed, I kind of casually brought up the question of the killings. Sort of asked if it was spooky living there. That kind of thing.”

“And?”

“He got funny and nervous again. Said ‘Know nothing,' in a way that made me think he really did know something.”

“About the shootings?”

“Who knows? But these guys are sneaky little bastards. They're good at hiding and watching. Maybe he saw something.”

“But he clammed up when you mentioned it.”

“Right. So I changed the subject. Didn't want to scare him off. If he does know something useful, we'll want to be able to find him when the time comes.”

“Interesting. Sounds like
you
should be the private dick, and I should be running boats.”

“No, thanks. Private dicks don't make squat.”

I wondered what Satchiko knew—and why it scared him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

F
irst thing in the morning, I called Bunny and told him I had the other Monet.

“Well done, Thomas!” he said. I had to remember that, to Bunny, I was Thomas Parke D'Invilliers, although he knew that wasn't quite my real name. “How did you manage it?”

“Professional secret,” I said.

“I understand. Some things are better left unspoken. I have to remind myself of that, now and then. Bring it over any time this morning. I have a conference with a lady who is interested in the arts, but that will be over lunch. Under
normal circumstances I would ask you to join us, but our business is rather delicate.”

“To un-speak something that was better left unspoken?”

“Something like that.”

“I suppose a suspicious husband is involved in some way.”

“Well, as it happens the ‘maritus cuckoldus' is not always so asleep at the switch as one would like. Well, see you soon.”

An hour later, I was in Bunny's office, and he was bent over his desk, examining the painting with a magnifying glass.

“Hmmm. This
is
rather good.
Much
better than the first one.”

“But still a fake?”

“Truth to tell, I don't know yet. Can't tell at first glance this time. That in itself says a lot.”

He stood up and polished his glass with a handkerchief that he pulled from the pocket of his tweed jacket.

“Our boy had talent,” he said.

“Our boy?”

“Either the forger . . . or Claude Monet.”

“That good, eh?”

“In a word, yes.”

“For the sake of argument, let's assume it's real. What would it be worth?”

“On the auction market, perhaps as much as two hundred thousand. On the private market, roughly half that, because the buyer would naturally assume it was stolen.”

“Hmmm.”

“Quite.”

“What do we do now?”

“I'd like to keep it for a couple of days and run some tests. The first thing to do is analyze the stretchers, to see if the
wood really is as old as it should be. That's not a foolproof test, of course, but it's often a useful clue. Same thing with the canvas. Then I want to examine the actual paint. A small chip can reveal a lot about the actual age of the piece.”

“Won't that ruin the painting?”

“No. I'll take it from the side where it folds under and is hidden by the frame.”

“How about the overall technique? Does it seem like the real thing?”

“I'll give that a more thorough look, of course, but at first glance I have to say that whoever did this painting understood Monet's technique perfectly.”

“And who would know that better than Monet himself?”

“Who, indeed?”

As I left Bunny's office, a small voice in the back of my mind wondered whether leaving the painting with him was such a good idea. After all, he was an artist himself. He had said with all due modesty that he had talent, if not genius, and who was I to distinguish between the two? Who was anybody, when you got right down to it? Might he use the opportunity to make a new copy? That way, if the painting were genuine, he could keep it, sell it himself, and give me back the new copy. He knew the private market; he had told me that. How long would it take to slap together a small copy of a pot of blurry flowers? How long would it take the paint to dry? Was there a way of accelerating that process? Using a heat lamp or something? I was out of my depth on those questions. There was no doubt he could fool me, tell
me anything he liked. Could Bunny be less than honest? The thought was probably unworthy of me, but I couldn't help thinking it. But after a while I dismissed the idea. After all, he had come recommended by the FBI. Still. . . .

I went to the office. No one was there, but it was lunchtime and I assumed Della had gone out for her usual Braunschweiger and onion on rye—washed down with a martini on the rocks. She had cast-iron digestion; it went perfectly with her personality.

A few moments later, she came into the office, not “trailing clouds of glory,” but clouds of Pall Mall with a hint of onion fumes. By the looks of her, she'd had more than one martini. But you'd have to know her well to recognize the signs; she could really hold her gin.

“Hiya, chief.”

“Good afternoon, loyal employee. What's the news?”

“Bugger all, except Sergeant Kowalski called and left a message to call him back.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”