The Polka Dot Nude (21 page)

“She handles mostly young, upcoming artists. A few of them are good—well, promising at least. Quite frankly, I don’t know how she pays the rent. I believe she’s a rich lady amusing herself with a genteel hobby. You hear rumor occasionally of some older items she picks up at private sales, but none of the important collectors have bought from her, as far as I know. She doesn’t even approach them. Are all of her items of this kind, I wonder?” Whitdale cocked a mobile brow at us.

“I imagine so, which accounts for her not peddling them to people who know something about art,” Brad said.

“But you do. How were you taken in?” Whitdale asked. “You could have had a good copy painted for a tenth of that price, if all you wanted was a copy.”

“It’s not the forgery I’m interested in,” Brad said. “The nude woman was stolen from Miss Dane.”

“Ah, this is your writer friend you mentioned on the phone yesterday.” Whitdale turned to me with sharper interest. “Charmed to meet you, Miss Dane.”

After a little personal conversation, he reverted to business. “What is it you want of me, Brad?” he asked.

“I’d like you to have a go at the signatures and clean them off for us, with turpentine or whatever you use.”

I felt a spasm of alarm. “Shouldn’t we get a few witnesses first?”

That, for some reason, sent Brad into shock. “We want to keep this quiet. It might be a good idea to get a photograph though, Art. Do you have a camera?”

“We have a room set up for the purpose, with proper lighting and excellent cameras. I’ll arrange it.”

It was arranged and executed with all due pomp and ceremony. Mr. Whitdale took about a dozen pictures of both the “Matisse” and the nude; then we returned to his office to work on the signature.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult. This one looks fairly fresh,” Whitdale said, glancing at my nude. “I wonder what she used to age it. A pretty good match with the old pigments.”

From a cupboard on the wall behind him, he got a bottle of colorless liquid, a stick with cotton swabs on the ends, and began carefully daubing at the black signature. It came away quite easily, while the paints hardened over the years stayed intact. In approximately five minutes, the word Rosalie was there, for all to see. The Matisse was next, with the same results.

“There you are,” Art said. “Not a question about it. Do you want me to go to the gallery with you, Brad?”

“No, thanks, but I’d like to use your name to intimidate her.”

“Feel free. I’d be happy to appear in court, if necessary. This is the kind of chicanery that gives art dealers a bad name. It makes people afraid to invest.”

We exchanged good-byes and assurances of meeting again, and took the paintings to the car.

“Drew’s going to be surprised to see us land back in on her so soon,” I mentioned. “Don’t you think we should take a policeman along?”

“Let’s hear what she has to say first. People have a way of clamming up with the formality of reading them their rights and the stern eye of the law on them.”

“Whatever you say, but if she pulls a gun out of her desk, don’t expect any heroics from me. I’m not that crazy about my picture.”

“You were crazy enough about it last night to break into her shop. Why didn’t you invite me along?”

“I’d imposed enough on your good nature. Make that so-so nature. Why didn’t
you
invite
me?”

He gave me a laughing look. “I wanted to outdo you, too. You never mentioned Jerome before.”

“Jerome and I go way back—he’s a good friend.”

“Oh, the apples you’ve stolen together! The school play where he was Saint Joseph and you the Virgin Mary, dropping the baby doll back in kindergarten. It’s unhealthy, living in the past, Audrey.”

Not knowing what other items Jerome might have blabbed about in the car, I cut this line short. “What did you think when you saw the lock had been taken off Drew’s door last night? Weren’t you afraid to go in?”

“I had a strong feeling it would be you. Who else would be interested in that particular place, at that particular time? The beat-up Volkswagen convinced me. Only you would go breaking and entering, planning your getaway in a tin can thirty years old.”

“At least we had wheels. It’s better than relying on a taxi.”

Drew was with another customer when we entered. She had her purse in her hand, and was leading him to the door, obviously preparing to run herself. She didn’t look frightened; more angry, or frustrated. So she’d discovered the break-in then, and that the painting was gone then.

“Mr. O’Casey, have you decided to buy another of my paintings while you’re passing through New York?” she asked ironically. Her topaz eyes had already taken note of the two paintings Brad carried, and the loose condition of their wrappings.

He waited till the other man left before he spoke, dropping the brogue now. “No, I’m dissatisfied with the one I bought this morning.”

“Really! What seems to be the trouble?” Odd as it was, she seemed only curious, not afraid.

Brad put the Matisse on the counter and unfolded the paper. “It’s this signature that bothers me,” he said, and pointed to the word
Rosalie.
“And of course the fact that it’s not a genuine Matisse.”

Drew glanced at it, but her eyes soon strayed to the other painting, still in its cover. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?” she asked.

“My friend—you must know Art Whitdale at the Met—discovered Rosalie Hart’s signature lurking here under the other name. He feels that Matisse was added very recently—something about the state of pigment. He’s ready to say so in court. You’ve had the thing two years, I think you said? Isn’t that right, Miss Andrews? You can verify that claim?” I nodded.

Drew looked coolly from Brad to me. “What makes you think it’s Rosalie Hart’s signature? It only says Rosalie. It could be anyone.”

“It’s Rosalie Hart’s. My friend here—actually her name is Miss Dane—was a friend of Rosalie’s.”

“Audrey Dane!” Drew exclaimed, and looked at me, finally taking more than a glance. “So that’s who you are! I don’t have to ask what’s in the other parcel, do I? It’s the nude she gave you.”

“That’s right, the one you had stolen from my cottage,” I told her.

Her bold topaz eyes stared into mine, with a look as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s. She wasn’t quite smiling, but fear made up no part of her expression. “All right, let’s talk. We’ll be more comfortable in my office,” she said, and led us to it. Brad picked up the paintings and brought them along.

“I noticed you’ve lost your accent, Mr. O’Casey,” Drew mentioned. “Just where do you fit into the picture? As if I didn’t know.”

“You can consider me an interested party. Mostly I’m interested to know why you had the nude stolen.”

“Stolen?” she asked, and laughed lightly. “Prove it. I bought it from a man who came in off the street a few days go. If it’s a forgery, I don’t want it. You can keep it, Miss Dane. I’ll give you back your check for the Matisse, Mr. O’Casey; you give me the painting, and we’re square.” She took the check from her purse and handed it to him.

“That’ll do for starters,” he said, and pocketed it. For a nervous minute, we all three looked uncertainly at each other. It was Brad who broke the silence. “The polka dot nude will make a great cover for your biography, Audrey. Not many people know what a great artist Rosalie was. How she worked with Braque, Rouault, and Picasso—all those artists in France. I wonder what happened to all her pictures. You wouldn’t have any idea, Miss Taylor?”

“None,” she said airily. “I hadn’t heard Rosalie Hart was an artist. You interviewed her, Miss Dane. Did she say anything about her paintings?”

“Oh yes,” I answered mysteriously.

“We took the idea some smart businesswoman got hold of them and sold them as originals,” Brad said. “Fixed up the signature, shuffled them out of the country to some little-traveled corner of the world—like Ireland.”

Drew’s smile stretched wider. “Is that what you thought? I wish you luck in proving it, Mr. O’Casey.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. The suspect’s books can be seized and examined, some of the purchasers contacted. A search warrant to take the paintings that presently decorate her own apartment . . ."

“It’s not against the law to hang anything I want on my own walls. I could hang a copy of
The Last Supper
and sign it da Vinci without being arrested. And do you really suppose the seller was fool enough to keep records? I think it more likely she—or he—did it all under the table,” Drew said. “No one got hurt in the transaction. The buyers got a beautiful, valuable work of art, at a bargain price. Unauthenticated, of course, which limits their trying to sell it. They bought for their own enjoyment, and could afford it. And if you think they’ll help you prove their bargain is a forgery, think again. No widows or orphans were fleeced in the process—so what’s your problem?”

“One widow was robbed—Rosalie Hart.”

Drew’s face twisted into a bitter parody of a smile. “She was loaded. My mother was a slave to her for years, putting up with treatment no one else would take in these days.”

“My mother”—Drew was saying Lorraine was her mother. Had Rosalie never told her the truth then, or was she trying to con us?

“She wasn’t indentured,” Brad pointed out. “She was free to go.”

“Go where? Rosalie was her life.”

“She could have come to you,” Brad said. “Or did your mother have to stay with Rosalie to get the paintings from her? You’ve been defrauding Rosalie’s estate for three years."

“Rosalie’s estate was left to my mother, who is getting her fair share from the pictures. Don’t be too sure Rosalie didn’t have a hand in it too. At least I’ll say so, if anyone is foolish enough to take it to court. Who can argue with a corpse?” she asked blandly. This struck me as a callous way to talk about her own mother.

“She never received a cent from your gallery!” Brad accused.

“How do you know, Mr. O’Casey?” Drew asked.

Brad blushed; Drew frowned, and I said, “What’s going on here? I know perfectly well you’re Rosalie’s daughter, and I think it’s disgusting . . ."

Drew threw her head back and laughed, a real, genuine belly laugh. “This is rich!” she said. “You’re writing Rosalie’s biography, and you don’t know a damned thing about her. You be sure to print that I’m Rosalie’s daughter, Miss Dane. I’d love to sue your publisher for a couple of million.”

“Brad, what’s—” I stopped, hardly knowing what question to ask from the many that assailed me.

Brad and Drew were locked in a battle of eyes, staring at each other with curious determination. Again it was Brad who spoke. "Whatever the setup was, it’s over. No more selling Rosalie’s works as forged masterpieces.”

“I never sold a thing as an authenticated original. Anyway, they’re gone. What’s left are the few you saw in my apartment.”

“Fine, we’ll take them, and call it settled,” Brad said. “The word is out in the artistic community what kind of an operation you’re running. You close shop, and that’ll be the end of it.”

"Very well, Mr. O'Malley."

“The name’s O’Casey,” Brad smiled.

“Sure, and mine’s Shirley Temple. I’ll send the paintings to Central Park West, but you don’t broadcast what went on here, and that includes what you write in the book, Miss Dane.”

Mysteries collided with enigmas in my mind. How did Drew know Brad’s name, and his address? Why did she act as though she were bargaining from strength, when she didn’t have a leg to stand on? Why wasn’t she afraid of us, and why wasn’t Brad going after her harder?

“The book’s about Rosalie, not a painting fraud,” Brad said. “Come on, Audrey, let’s get out of here. I don’t like the atmosphere.”

“It was fine before you came in, Mr. O’Malley,” Drew said. She lifted a pack of cigarettes and slowly lit one, with an insolent stare as we gathered up our paintings to leave.

CHAPTER 17

“How did she know who you are, and where you live?” I demanded, as we hurried to the parking lot.

“She’s part witch.”

“She must have heard Hume Mason was doing a book too,” I reasoned. “How many people know Mason’s real name anyway?”

With his eyes firmly riveted on the car, he replied, “Not many, and if Drew Taylor thinks
I'm
Mason, she isn’t one of the select circle who knows.”

“What do you mean, if she
thinks
you’re Mason. You
are
Mason!”

“We’ll do IDs later, okay?” he said brusquely, while he strode on his long legs to the car. “Did we let her off too easily?”

“Now,
Brad. We’ll do IDs now.”

“That’s a sit-down-and-have-a-drink story, Audrey. Trust me.”

A busy parking lot seemed a poor spot to sit down and have a drink. “Okay, but you’re not going to wiggle out of it this time.”

“So, did we let her off too easily?” he repeated.

I allowed myself to be temporarily detoured to this topic. “We couldn’t prove anything. Between her not keeping records and not authenticating the paintings, it’d be impossible to prove fraud. And as she said, her victims would be the last ones to help—they want to believe they have genuine masterpieces.”

“I don’t feel too sorry for them. They got what they paid for—famous names to hang on the wall and impress their friends.”

“Some people are so interested in appearances,” I agreed, slyly innocent, as we climbed into the Benz.

“Don’t start on me, Audrey. It was her giving Rosalie a black eye that bothered me most. There’d be no way to prove Rosalie wasn’t a part of the scheme.”

“Maybe she was.”

“No, she wasn’t.” A muscle at the side of his jaw quivered. Something was upsetting him, either the conversation, or the terrible job he was doing of getting the car into gear.

“How would
you
know? I didn’t think she had a clue myself. She was growing senile. All she remembered was the movies, and the men, and the wild affairs. She just had that one painting of her own, in her bedroom. I wonder why she wanted me to have it.”

“Didn’t she say?”

“Well, she’d already told me about her painting, and that she was pretty good. I guess I didn’t look convinced, so she showed it to me. I oohed and ahed, and she handed it over. Generous. She must have known she didn’t have long to live. Maybe she wanted me to write nice things about her art, and considered the painting a bribe. I’m just conjecturing.”