You Might As Well Die (24 page)

Finn’s seething anger finally boiled over. His face turned bright red and the veins in his neck went taut. He leaned forward and yelled, “Do you really think anyone will pay
fifty thousand goddamn dollars
for that
goddamn awful painting
?”

Dorothy’s throat was tight. She gulped but didn’t answer.

Finn leaned back in his seat, his anger at a low boil again. His voice was calm now. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to find out. So, where is this art appraiser? And how good is he?”

Dorothy couldn’t decide if she was more unsettled by the furious and raging Mickey Finn—or the calculating and even-tempered one.

“V
ery well,let’s take a look,”said Hubert Cathcart, the art appraiser.

He laid the wrapped painting on an enormous worktable—more than twice the size of Dorothy’s office desk—which took up most of the floor space in the back of the store.

Other than a soft clucking from deep in Cathcart’s throat, it was surprisingly, unnervingly quiet in here, Dorothy thought. She could turn around in her chair and glance out to the plate-glass window at the front of the store and see the clogged sidewalk and the traffic on Fifth Avenue. But she couldn’t hear any of it. This place—Cathcart’s Fine Art, the sign had read—was somehow insulated against the sounds of the street.

Benchley, Dorothy and Mickey Finn sat next to one another in a short line of hard metal folding chairs that faced the big worktable. Finn was next to Dorothy. He sat up as straight as a flagpole, gently and methodically tapping the end of his walking stick on the floor. The sound reminded Dorothy of a dripping faucet, and she realized she could stand it no longer.

She stood up on the pretext of watching Cathcart unwrap the brown paper from the painting.

Hubert Cathcart looked like some kind of gaunt flightless bird—an emu or an ostrich—that had spent its entire life in a small cage indoors, Dorothy thought. He was long, bony and stoop shouldered. He was young—possibly not much older than Benchley—but he wore his rimless, round bifocals on the end of his long, narrow nose like an elderly librarian. His skin was waxy and pale. He wore an expensive, slender blue suit—probably from a nearby men’s clothier on Fifth Avenue—yet he barely filled it out.

Cathcart continued the occasional soft clucking sounds as he carefully peeled away the brown paper and examined the painting.

“Well?” Finn’s voice was sharp.

Cathcart didn’t respond—didn’t even seem to hear him.

Finn stood up next to Dorothy. “Come on, man. Speak. Is it genuine?”

Cathcart didn’t even look at Finn. “Sit, please,” he said, his voice as soft as a whisper. “This takes time.”

Finn considered this, and then agreed wholeheartedly. “Aye, indeed. Take your time. Take all the time you need. Do your best.” He sat down again, leaned back in his chair and took a cigar out of his suit jacket pocket. He flicked a match on his thumbnail, and it flowered into flame.

Cathcart spun around. “Put that out!” he hissed. “There’s no smoking in here.”

The unlit cigar hung in Finn’s open mouth. No one spoke to him that way!

But Cathcart had already turned back to MacGuffin’s painting, as if the matter had been settled and even forgotten.

Finn didn’t respond. He silently shook the flame out of the match and then placed the cigar back in his jacket.

Cathcart continued to make the soft clucking sounds as he examined the painting. He reached for a large magnifying glass that was attached to a pivoting, adjustable stand. He positioned the glass over the painting and stared through it.

The telephone rang. Dorothy scanned the art-covered walls and tabletops. She couldn’t see the telephone anywhere. It rang a second time. Cathcart either didn’t hear it or didn’t care.

“Are you going to answer that?” Dorothy asked.

Cathcart shook his head, not looking at her. “Would you mind, please?”

He wanted
her
to answer it? Well, it would give her something to do. She skirted around the worktable and paused as the phone rang again. A glass-topped sales counter divided the store between the art showroom in front and the work area in back. The ringing seemed to come from there. She found the phone under the counter and picked it up.

“Hello. Cathcart Fine Fart,” she said. Cathcart didn’t look up. “I mean, Cathcart Fine
Art
. May I help you?”

“Mrs. Parker? Is that you?” said a familiar voice.

“Mr. Sherwood? Why are you calling?”

“Why are you answering?” She was about to make some joke when Sherwood continued. “Never mind that. I have terrible news.”

Oh cripes,
Dorothy thought.
What now?

She instinctively turned away from the men at the back of the store and spoke quietly into the phone. “Go ahead. Let me have it.”

“It’s Ernie MacGuffin,” Sherwood said. “He’s dead.”

Dorothy was momentarily puzzled. Sherwood knew that Ernie’s suicide was a fake....

Then a chill ran through her.

“You mean,” she whispered, “he’s not just dead, but . . .
dead
?
Really
dead?”

“Yes,” Sherwood said. “Really dead. His body was found this morning. The news just came over the wire.”

“Are they sure it’s him?”

“There were no details,” Sherwood said. “Just that his body was found lying in the gutter on Water Street this morning. That’s all.”

Dorothy bit her lip. She looked over her shoulder at Finn, Cathcart and Benchley. Finn was staring directly at her. She turned away again.

Sherwood’s voice continued. “As soon as I saw the news, I found Cathcart’s number on your desk and called right away. I’m glad you were the one who picked up the phone.”

“I’m not,” she said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “This is terrible. I can’t believe it’s true.”

“If it is true, does it really make any difference?” Sherwood said. “After all, only you and a few others knew that Ernie was alive. The only difference is that his body hadn’t been found before. But now it has.”

“Before, he had jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge,” she said. “Now his body is found in the street two weeks later. That’s more than a little odd, don’t you think?”

“More than a little, yes.”

She didn’t yet know what this might mean. She didn’t quite believe it, yet she feared it might be true. When she’d seen Ernie the night before, he’d sounded so desperate. She remembered how he had begged for her help. If she had agreed to help him, would he be dead now—if he truly was dead?

She pushed the thought aside. She’d figure it out later. She thanked Sherwood and hung up. She crept back to her seat, trying to be unobtrusive.

But Finn’s eyes were on her. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Wrong number,” she said. “Some guy looking for a woman named Betty.”

“Then why were you on for so long?”

“I wanted to know what’s so great about Betty.”

Then Cathcart straightened up, about to pronounce a verdict. Finn, Dorothy and Benchley looked at him expectantly.

“It’s genuine,” Cathcart said to them. “Although it’s not his usual style, this is without a doubt an authentic MacGuffin.”

Finn appeared momentarily satisfied. Dorothy felt a little relieved at least, even though she already knew that it was genuine.

“So how much is it worth?” Finn asked.

But before Cathcart could respond, the front door opened and an elegant older woman in a mink stole and a wide-brimmed hat came in. She swooped toward Cathcart, ignoring everyone else. She spoke through her nose, which was long and high in the air.

“Hubert dear, did you hear? It’s the latest—the absolute
latest
. I just heard it on the radio. The body of Ernest MacGuffin has finally been found. Can you believe it? And found on the street, not in the river. Isn’t that beyond the pale—the absolute
pale
?”

Cathcart swiveled his birdlike body from the painting on his worktable to the aristocratic woman and back again, and back yet again. He couldn’t seem to reconcile this news to the painting in front of him.

“Yes,” Finn said gravely, his eyes on Dorothy. “That is absolutely beyond the pale.”

 

A moment later, Finn was on his feet, towering over the art expert and the fancy lady, demanding answers.

The lady spoke in a superior tone. “I don’t know who you think you are, sir—”

Dorothy interrupted. “On the contrary, ma’am. Mr. Finn knows exactly who he thinks he is.”

The woman silently mouthed,
Finn?
Her powdered face went even whiter.

Mickey Finn repeated, “Where was he found?
How
was he found?”

The lady took a half step backward. “The announcer didn’t say
how
MacGuffin was found. Just that he was dead—absolutely
dead
.”

Finn spun around to Dorothy. “You told me he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Dorothy didn’t know what was going on, but she wouldn’t let Finn talk to her like that—gangster or not. “I was there on the bridge. He left behind his shoes, a suicide note, and that very painting.” She pointed to it on the worktable.

Finn turned back to Cathcart. “You were about to tell us how much it’s worth, before this—this woman came in.” Finn eyed the fancy lady. “So tell. How much?”

Cathcart gulped. There was no way he would tell Finn not to light a cigarette now. He’d probably happily strike the match for him.

“H-how much?” Cathcart repeated. “That—that depends.”

“Depends?”
Finn barked, folding his arms. “Tell us, what does it depend on?”

“Well.” Cathcart blinked. “A moment ago, I would have quoted you one figure. But now—” He glanced at the fancy lady, clearly thinking of the news she’d just told. “Now that’s changed.”

“Changed
how
?” Finn said. “I want a number. A dollar figure!”

Dorothy slid her hand into Benchley’s. Maybe they could sneak out while Finn focused his attention on Cathcart and his gossipy lady friend. She pulled Benchley toward the door.

“Just where the hell do you think you’re going?” Finn yelled behind them.

Dorothy and Benchley turned. She told Finn exactly where she thought she was going. “To the police.”

“The
police
?”

“Yes, the police,” she said. “We have to find out what happened to MacGuffin. Captain Church will surely tell us.”

“In good time,” Finn growled. “For now, sit your backsides down! My investment comes first.”

Dorothy didn’t sit down. But she didn’t move any closer to the door either. Benchley simply held her hand, ready to follow her either way.

The phone rang. Cathcart didn’t reach for it. He looked to Finn as if for permission.

“Go ahead,” Finn snapped. “Answer it.”

Cathcart picked it up, his voice subdued. “Cathcart Fine Art. Hubert Cathcart speaking.” He glanced at Finn. “Yes, I just heard. . . . Why yes, as a matter of fact I have one on my desk at this very moment.” He turned to MacGuffin’s painting, his voice gaining strength again as he focused on his work and not on Finn. “Yes, the one of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

He paused for a moment, listening. Then he glanced nervously at the gangster. “Oh, you don’t say.”

Finn’s brows knitted.

“That is . . . interesting,” Cathcart said into the phone, looking not at all interested in hearing this. “Yes, thank you for the call. I’ll call you back later.”

He hung up the phone and kept looking at it, not wanting to look up at Finn.

“Well?” Finn snapped.

Cathcart nearly jumped. “I just heard some news about the current value of the MacGuffins, in light of the most recent tragic events.”

Dorothy glanced at Benchley. “The art world is a smaller place than I’d have thought. News certainly travels fast there.”

Cathcart looked up. “News like this does.”

Finn grabbed Cathcart by his jacket. “Tell it, damn you. Tell it!”

Cathcart whimpered. The fancy lady stepped back, cringing.

“Another MacGuffin painting just dropped in value by half,” Cathcart mumbled. “It went from two thousand down to one.”

“Half?”
Finn shouted, releasing him with a shove. “Dropped by half?”

Cathcart stumbled back a few steps. “Th-that doesn’t mean every MacGuffin painting will lose half its value.”

“This one!” Finn pointed to the Brooklyn Bridge painting. “How much is it worth?”

Cathcart adjusted the wireless spectacles on his birdlike nose. “W-well, it’s hard to put an exact number—”

Finn stomped his foot.
“How much?”

Cathcart flinched. “Nineteen hundred. At best.”

Finn spoke in a whisper.
“Nineteen hundred. At best.”

He turned to face Dorothy and Benchley. He pointed his shillelagh at them. “You owe me fifty thousand, minus the nineteen hundred!”

“Fifty
thousand
?” she said. “But Mr. Benchley only spent five thousand of your—”

“
Fifty
thousand!” Finn shouted. “I expected a tenfold return on my investment, and I will surely get a tenfold return on my investment! You have twenty-four hours.”

Finn held their gaze a moment longer, snatched up his shillelagh and stormed out of the shop.

“Now, that is beyond the pale,” Dorothy muttered to Benchley. “
Absolutely
beyond the pale.”

“Absolutely,” said the elegant woman, whose own face had gone beyond pale.

“W
ell, look who it is,”Detective O’Rannigan said from behind his messy desk. The desk was piled with papers, manila folders and a tall, half-eaten corned-beef sandwich on a square of waxed paper. “I had a little hunch you’d come sniffing around here today.”

“Ah, is that how modern police work is performed these days?” Dorothy asked. “With little hunches?”