The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

CHAPTER Sixteen

Back at the store, I checked the premises for bodies, living or dead, before I did anything else. I didn’t find any, nor did I happen on any clues as to how Turnquist had gotten into my store or how he’d happened to join his ancestors in that great atelier on high. Carolyn wheeled the chair into the back room and I helped her fold it. “I’ll take it back in a cab,” she said, “but first I want some coffee.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Not from the felafel joint.”

“Don’t worry.”

When I got back with two coffees she said the phone had rung in my absence. “I was gonna answer it,” she said, “and then I didn’t.”

“Probably wise.”

“This coffee’s much better. You know what we oughta do? In either your place or my place we oughta have one of those machines, nice fresh coffee all day long. One of those electric drip things.”

“Or even a hotplate and a Chemex pot.”

“Yeah. Of course you’d be pouring coffee for customers all day long, and you’d never get rid of Kirschmann. He’d be a permanent guest. I really grossed him out, didn’t I?”

“He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

“Well, that was the idea. I figured the more disgusting I made it, the faster he’d split. I was trying to wait him out, you know, figuring he might leave if I stayed out of the room long enough, but it looked as though he wasn’t gonna cave without peeing, so-”

“I almost left myself. He’s not the only one you grossed out.”

“Oh, right. You didn’t know I was faking it.”

“Of course not. I didn’t know there was a dead man in there.”

“Maybe I went into too much detail.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and the phone rang.

I picked it up and Wally Hemphill said, “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Bernie. I was thinking you’d jumped bail.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t know anybody in Costa Rica.”

“Oh, a guy like you would make friends anywhere. Listen, what do you know about this Mondrian?”

“I know he was Dutch,” I said. “Born in 1872 in Amberfoot or something like that. He began, you may recall, as a painter of naturalistic landscapes. As he found his own style he grew artistically and his work became increasingly abstract. By 1917-”

“What’s this, a museum lecture? There’s a painting missing from Onderdonk’s apartment worth close to half a million dollars.”

“I know.”

“You get it?”

“No.”

“It might be useful if you could come up with it. Give us a bargaining chip.”

“Suppose I gave them Judge Crater,” I said, “or a cure for cancer.”

“You really haven’t got the painting?”

“No.”

“Who got it?”

“Probably the person who killed him.”

“You didn’t kill anybody and you didn’t take anything.”

“Right.”

“You were just there to leave fingerprints.”

“Evidently.”

“Nuts. Where do you go from here, Bernie?”

“Around in circles,” I said.

I got off the phone and went in back, with Carolyn trailing after me. There’s a sort of cupboard next to the desk, filled with things I haven’t gotten around to throwing out, and I keep a sweat shirt and some other running gear there. I opened it, took inventory, and removed my shirt.

“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Getting undressed,” I said, unbelting my pants. “What’s it look like?”

“Jesus,” she said, turning her back on me. “If this is a subtle pass, I pass on it. In the first place I’m gay and in the second place we’re best friends and in the third place-”

“I’m going for a run, Carolyn.”

“Oh. With Wally?”

“Without Wally. A nice lope around Washington Square until my mind clears up. There’s nothing in it now but false starts and loose ends. People keep coming out of the woodwork asking me for a painting I never even had my hands on. They all want me to have it. Kirschmann smells a reward and Wally smells a fat fee and I don’t know what all the other people smell. Oil paint, probably. I’ll run and work the kinks out of my mind and maybe all of this will start to make sense to me.”

“And what about me? What’ll I do while you’re doing your Alberto Salazar impression?”

“You could take the wheelchair back.”

“Yeah, I have to do that sooner or later, don’t I? Bern? I wonder if any of the people who saw you in the wheelchair will recognize you jogging around Washington Square.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Listen,” she said, “anybody says anything, just tell ’em you’ve been to Lourdes.”

Washington Square Park is a rectangle, and the sidewalk around it measures just about five-eighths of a mile, which in turn is just about a kilometer. It’s flat if you’re walking, but when you run there’s a slight slope evident, and if you run counterclockwise, as almost everybody does, you feel the incline as you run east along the southern border of the park. I felt it a lot on the first lap, with my legs still a little achy from the previous day’s ordeal in Central Park, but after that it didn’t bother me.

I was wearing blue nylon shorts and a ribbed yellow tank top and burgundy running shoes, and there was a moment when I found myself wondering whether Mondrian would have liked my outfit. Scarlet shoes would have suited him better, I decided. Or vermillion, like the galleries.

I took it very slow and easy. A lot of people passed me, but I didn’t care if old ladies with aluminum walkers whizzed by me. I just put one wine-colored foot after the other, and somewhere around the fourth lap my mind started to float, and I suppose I ran three more laps after that but I wasn’t keeping score.

I didn’t think about Mondrian or his paintings or all the crazy people who wanted them. I didn’t really think about anything, and after my close to four miles I picked up the plastic bag of stuff I’d left with one of the chessplayers at the park’s southwest corner. I thanked him and trotted west to Arbor Court.

Carolyn wasn’t home, so I used the tools I’d brought along to let myself into her building and then her apartment. The vestibule lock was candy but the others were not, and I wondered what curious villain had picked those locks without leaving a hint of his presence, and why he couldn’t use the same talents to hook the Mondrian out of the Hewlett Collection all by his own self.

I got in, locked up, stripped and showered, the last-named act being the reason I’d come to Arbor Court. I dried off and put on the clothes I’d been wearing earlier and hung my sopping shorts and tank top over the shower curtain rod. Then I looked in the fridge for a beer, made a face when I failed to find one, and fixed some iced tea from a mix. It tasted like what you would expect.

I made a sandwich and ate it and made another sandwich and started eating it, and some clown outside slammed on his brakes and hit his horn, and Ubi hopped onto the window ledge to investigate. I watched him stick his head through the bars, the tips of his whiskers just brushing the bars on either side, and I thought of Archie’s whiskers and found myself feeling uncommonly sorry for the poor cat. There were two people dead already and I was charged with one murder and might very well be charged with the other, and all I could think of was how forlorn Carolyn’s cat must be.

I looked up a number, picked up the phone and dialed it. Denise Raphaelson answered on the third ring and I said, “This is Bernie, and we never had this conversation.”

“Funny, I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

“What do you know about an artist named Turnquist?”

“That’s why you called? To find out what I know about an artist named Turnquist?”

“That’s why. He’s probably crowding sixty, reddish hair and goatee, bad teeth, gets all his clothes from the Goodwill. Sort of a surly manner.”

“Where is he? I think I’ll marry him.”

Denise was a girlfriend of mine for a while, and then she rather abruptly became a girlfriend of Carolyn’s, and that didn’t last very long. She’s a painter, with a loft on West Broadway called the Narrowback Gallery where she lives and works. I said, “Actually, it’s a little late for that.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“You don’t want to know. Ever hear of him?”

“I don’t think so. Turnquist. He got a first name?”

“Probably. Most people do, except for Trevanian. Maybe Turnquist’s his first name and he doesn’t have a last name. There are a lot of people like that. Hildegarde. Twiggy.”

“Liberace.”

“That’s his last name.”

“Oh, right.”

“Does Turnquist ring a bell?”

“Doesn’t even knock softly. What kind of painter is he?”

“A dead one.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Well, he’s in good company. Rembrandt, El Greco, Giotto, Bosch-all those guys are dead.”

“We never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?”

I hung up and looked up Turnquist in the Manhattan book, and there was only one listing, a Michael Turnquist in the East Sixties. Things are never that easy, and he certainly hadn’t dressed to fit that address, but what the hell. I dialed the number and a man answered almost immediately.

I said, “Michael Turnquist?”

“Speaking.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I must have the wrong number.”

The hell with it. I picked up the phone again and dialed 911. When a woman answered I said, “There’s a dead body at a construction site on Washington Street,” and gave the precise address. She started to ask me something but I didn’t let her finish her sentence. “Sorry,” I said, “but I’m one of those people who just don’t want to get involved.”

I was lost in something, possibly thought, when a key turned in one of the locks. The sound was repeated as someone opened the other two locks in turn, and I spent a couple of seconds trying to decide what I’d do if it wasn’t Carolyn. Suppose it was the Nazi, coming to swipe the other cat. I looked around for Ubi but didn’t see him, and then the door swung inward and I turned to look at Carolyn and Elspeth Peters.

Except it wasn’t Elspeth Peters, and all it took was a second glance to make that clear to me. But I could see why my henchperson had taken a second glance at the Peters woman, because the resemblance was pronounced.

I could also see why she’d taken more than a couple glances at this woman, who obviously had to be Alison the tax planner. She was at least as attractive as Elspeth Peters, and the airy quality of Ms. Peters that went so well with old-timey lady poets and secondhand books was replaced in Alison by an earthy intensity. Carolyn introduced us-“Alison, this is Bernie Rhodenbarr. Bernie, this is Alison Warren”-and Alison established her credentials as a political and economic lesbian with a firm no-nonsense handshake.

“I didn’t expect you,” Carolyn said.

“Well, I stopped in to use the shower.”

“Right, you were running.”

“Oh, you’re a runner?” Alison said.

We got a little mileage out of that, so to speak, and Carolyn put some coffee on, and Alison sat down on the couch and Ubi turned up and sat in her lap. I went over to the stove, where Carolyn was fussing with the coffee.

“Isn’t she nice?” she whispered.

“She’s terrific,” I whispered back. “Get rid of her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Why, for Christ’s sake?”

“We’re going to the museum. The Hewlett.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Look, I just got her here. She’s all settled in with a cat on her lap. The least I can do is give her a cup of coffee.”

“Okay,” I said, still whispering. “I’ll split now. Get away as soon as you can and meet me in front of the Hewlett.”

When I handed over my two singles and two quarters, the attendant at the Hewlett was nice enough to point out that the gallery would be closing in less than an hour. I told him that was all right and accepted my lapel pin in return. The whole exchange brought the late Mr. Turnquist to life for me, and I remembered the fierce animation with which he’d lectured to us about art. I suppose I’d depersonalized the man in order to drag his body across town and dump him, and I guess it had been necessary, but now I saw him again as a person-quirky and abrasive and vividly human-and I felt sorry he was dead and sorrier that I’d used him after death as a prop in a macabre farce.

The feeling was a dismal one and I shook it off as I made my way to the upstairs gallery where the Mondrian was on display. I entered with a perfunctory nod at the uniformed guard. I half expected to find a blank spot on the wall where Composition with Color had lately hung, or another painting altogether, but Mondrian was right where he belonged and I was glad to see him again.

Half an hour later a voice at my elbow said, “Well, it’s good, Bernie, but I don’t think it would fool many people. It’s hard to make a pencil sketch look like an oil painting. What are you doing?”

“Sketching the painting,” I said, without looking up from my notebook. “I’m guessing at the measurements.”

“What are the initials for? Oh, the colors, right?”

“Right.”

“What’s the point?”

“I don’t know.”

“The guy downstairs didn’t want to take my money. The place is gonna close any minute. What I did, I gave him a dollar. Are we gonna steal the painting, Bernie?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh. When?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t suppose you know how we’re gonna do it, either.”

“I’m working on it.”

“By drawing in your notebook?”

“Shit,” I said, and closed the notebook with a snap. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Bern. I didn’t mean to hassle you.”

“It’s okay. Let’s get out of here.”

We found a bar called Gloryosky’s a couple of blocks up Madison. Soft lighting, deep carpet, chrome and black formica, and some Little Orphan Annie murals on the walls. About half the patrons were gulping their first après-work drinks while the rest looked as though they hadn’t made it back from lunch. Everybody was thanking God that it was Friday.

“This is nice,” Carolyn said as we settled into a booth. “Dim lights, gaiety, laughter, the clink of ice cubes and a Peggy Lee record on the jukebox. I could be happy here, Bernie.”

“Cute waitress, too.”

“I noticed. This joint has it all over the Bum Rap. It’s a shame it’s so far from the store.” The waitress appeared and leaned forward impressively. Carolyn gave her a full-tilt smile and ordered a martini, very cold, very dry, and very soon. I asked for Coca-Cola and lemon. The waitress smiled and departed.

“Why?” Carolyn demanded.

“Pardon?”

“Why Coke with lemon?”

“It cuts some of the sugary taste.”

“Why Coke in the first place?”

I shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m not in the mood for Perrier. Plus I figure I can use a little sugar rush and a caffeine hit.”

“ Bern, are you being willfully obtuse?”

“Huh? Oh. Why no booze?”

“Right.”

I shrugged again. “No particular reason.”

“You’re gonna try breaking into the museum? That’s crazy.”

“I know, and I’m not going to try. But whatever I do I’ve got a complicated evening coming up and I guess I want to be at the top of my form. Such as it is.”

“Myself, I figure I’m better with a couple of drinks.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t survive another ten minutes without one. Ah, here we are,” she said, as our drinks appeared. “You can tell him to start mixing up another of these,” she told the waitress, “because I wouldn’t want to get too far out in front of him.”

“Another round.”

“Just another martini,” she said. “He’s got to sip that. Didn’t your mother ever tell you? Never gulp anything fizzy.”

I squeezed the lemon into the Coke, stirred and sipped. “She’s got a great laugh,” Carolyn said. “I like a girl with a nice sense of humor.”

“And a nice set of-”

“Those too. There’s a lot to be said for curves, even if your buddy Mondrian didn’t believe in them. Straight lines and primary colors. You think he was a genius?”

“Probably.”

“Whatever genius is. As far as having something to hang on the wall, I’m a lot happier with my Chagall litho.”

“That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Before,” I said. “Standing in front of the painting, I was thinking how great it would look in my apartment.”

“Where?”

“Over the couch. Sort of centered over the couch.”

“Oh yeah?” She closed her eyes, trying to picture it. “The painting we just saw? Or the one you saw in Onderdonk’s apartment?”

“Well, the one we just saw. But the other was the same idea and the same general proportions, so it would do, too.”

“Over the couch.”

“Right.”

“You know, it might look kind of nice in your place,” she said. “Once all this mess is cleared away, you know what you’ll have to do?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something like one-to-ten.”

“One-to-ten?”

“Years.”

“Oh,” she said, and dismissed the entire penal system with an airy wave of her hand. “I’m serious, Bern. Once everything’s cleared up, you can sit down and paint yourself a Mondrian and hang it over the couch.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I mean it. Face it, Bern. What old Piet did back there doesn’t look all that hard to do. Okay, he was a genius because he thought of it first, and his proportions and colors were brilliant and perfect and fit into some philosophical system, whatever it was, but so what? If all you’re looking to do is make a copy for your own place, how hard could it be to follow his measurements and copy his colors and just paint it? I mean there’s no drawing involved, there’s no shading, there’s no changes in texture. It’s just a white canvas with black lines and patches of color. You wouldn’t have to spend ten years at the Art Students League to do that, would you?”

“What a thought,” I said. “It’s probably harder than it looks.”

“Everything’s harder than it looks. Grooming a Shih Tzu’s harder than it looks, but you don’t have to be a genius. Where’s that sketch you made? Couldn’t you follow the dimensions and paint it on canvas?”

“I can paint a wall with a roller. That’s about it.”

“Why’d you make the sketch?”

“Because there’s too many paintings,” I said, “and unless they’re side by side I couldn’t tell them apart, Mondrian being Mondrian, and I thought a sketch might be useful for identification purposes. If I ever see any picture besides the one in the Hewlett. I couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do what?”

“Paint a fake Mondrian. I wouldn’t know what to do. All the black bands are straight like a knife edge. How would you manage that?”

“I suppose you’d need a steady hand.”

“There must be more to it than that. And I wouldn’t know how to buy paints, let alone mix colors.”

“You could learn.”

“An artist could do it,” I said.

“Sure. If you knew the technique, and-”

“It’s a shame we didn’t get to Turnquist before he died. He was an artist and he admired Mondrian.”

“Well, he’s not the only artist in New York City. If you want a Mondrian for over the couch and you don’t want to try painting it yourself, I’m sure you could find someone to-”

“I’m not talking about a Mondrian for my apartment.”

“You’re not? Oh.”

“Right.”

“You mean-”

“Right.”

“Where’s the waitress, dammit? A person could die of thirst around here.”

“She’s coming.”

“Good. I don’t think it’ll work, Bern. I was talking about making something that’d look good over your couch, not something that would fool experts. Besides, where would we find an artist we could trust?”

“Good point.”

The waitress arrived, setting a fresh martini in front of Carolyn and having a look at my Coke, which was still half full. Or half empty, if you’re a pessimist.

“That’s perfect,” Carolyn told her. “I bet you used to be a nurse, didn’t you?”

“That’s nothing,” she said. “It’s supposed to be a secret, but I just know you won’t tell anyone. The bartender used to be a brain surgeon.”

“He hasn’t lost his touch. It’s a good thing I’ve got Blue Cross.”

The waitress did her exit-laughing number, taking Carolyn’s eyes with her. “She’s cute,” said my partner in crime.

“A shame she’s not an artist.”

“Clever repartee, a great personality, and a nifty set of wheels. You figure she’s gay?”

“Hope does spring eternal, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Gay or straight,” I said, “what we really need is an artist.”

The whole room seemed to go silent, as if someone had just mentioned E. F. Hutton. Except that other conversations were still going on. It’s just that we stopped hearing them. Carolyn and I both froze, then turned our eyes slowly to meet one another’s exophthalmic gazes. After a long moment we spoke as if in a single voice.

“Denise,” we said.