The Case of the Reluctant Model

Chapter Ten

It was after eleven o’clock when Mason fitted his latchkey to the exit door of his private office, swung open the door and found the lights on.

“Hi, Della,” Mason said. “What are you doing around here this time of night?”

“Waiting for you,” she said smiling. “How was the trip?”

“Well, I guess you know just about everything I know. We caught up with Maxine, the police caught up with her, I got Rankin’s permission to represent her, and I’m stuck with her.”

“Why did you decide to represent her, Chief?”

“I’m darned if I know,” Mason said, “except that I think the kid was telling the truth and if she is, she has made quite a sacrifice for someone she loves. And if she’s that kind of a girl I thought she was entitled to the breaks.”

“Well,” she said, “Paul Drake has been having kittens for the last half hour. He wants you to get in touch with him the minute you come in. You didn’t stop by his office?”

“No,” Mason said, grinning. “I had an idea you might be here and I thought I’d come on down and see you first. Give Paul a ring and tell him I’m home.”

Della Street whirled the dial of the telephone and in a moment she said, “Hi, Paul. He’s home... Okay, we’ll be waiting.”

Della Street hung up and said, “He’s on his way down here. He’s struck pay dirt somewhere along the line.”

Della Street walked over to stand by the corridor door so that the minute Drake’s code knock sounded on the panel she could open the door.

Drake, his face gray with fatigue, tired pouches under his eyes, said, “Hi, folks... Gosh, I’m glad you’re back, Perry... If I don’t get some sleep tonight I’m going to fall on my face. But I’ve got something I thought you should know about.”

“What?”

“Durant was in the business of making and selling phoney pictures. He had a very gifted copyist who could copy just about any painting that you’d put in front of him. The guy had no particular originality but he was a demon as a copyist.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I know the guy,” Drake said.

“How did you get in touch with him, Paul?”

“It’s a long story,” Drake said. “I started running down everything I could get on Durant, and I found that there’s an art store here that gave Durant quite a charge account and had been holding the bag for a large part of the balance due.

“So naturally I started wondering why Durant would be buying canvases and paints and brushes and painters’ supplies and so forth, and so I went down and had a talk with the art store. I intimated that I might be able to dig up some information that would help him get the bill paid up, and learned that the supplies had all been delivered to one address — a sort of a beatnik studio — a chap by the name of Goring Gilbert, who signed receipts for the material — and all of a sudden Durant’s credit was good as gold again.”

“You’ve talked with Gilbert?” Mason asked.

“No, I haven’t, but I’ve checked on him and find that he’s a very expert copyist and has a whale of a lot of talent. Some of his copies have been hung as originals. That is, the guy can copy the style of any given painter. If you’ll give him a picture, say a big colored photograph made by the dye-transfer process or a calendar picture or something of that sort, and tell him to imitate the style of some famous artist, the guy can do it well enough so that at times it fools even the experts — or at least that’s what he claims.

“He’s a typical beatnik, apparently, but he’s rolling in dough which is something most of them don’t have. That is, he’s supposed to be loaded to the extent of being able to get what he wants.

“Now, here’s the funny thing, Perry. Two weeks ago Durant paid off his account at the art store — with hundred-dollar bills. Now, remember that when Durant’s body was found there was ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and about twenty-five dollars, in smaller stuff.”

Mason said, “What about this man, Gilbert, can we get him tonight? It’s pretty late.”

Drake said, “Sure, we can get him tonight, if you feel you have to see him right away. I’ve got a man riding herd on him and this is just the shank of the evening for those guys.”

“Let’s go,” Mason said. “Let’s try and beat the police to it for once.”

“How about me?” Della Street asked.

“You go home,” Mason said, “and get some sleep.”

Drake said, “This is a dump, Della. It’s not for nice girls.”

“Phooey to you, Paul Drake,” she said. “You’ve whetted my curiosity. I’m not going to sit up here doing all the chores and then when the party gets spicy have you bundle me up and send me home.”

“These people are far out,” Drake said. “The women are artists and models who are — well, they think nothing of posing in the nude.”

“I’ve seen nudes before,” Della Street said, and then added shyly, “and how about you, Mr. Paul Drake?”

Mason grinned. “Come on, Della, if you want. Bring some notebooks and let’s go.”

“Your car or mine?” Drake asked.

“Yours,” Mason said. “I’ll relax and let you worry about the traffic signals and the tickets, if any.”

“There won’t be any,” Drake said. “I’m a chastened guy. I had the job of investigating an automobile accident about two weeks ago, and in case you don’t know, I’ve completely and utterly reformed. After you see people strewn around the road the way I saw them — well, it gives you something to think about, and I mean think.”

“Good,” Mason said. “I got cured a while ago. The Traffic Safety Editor of the Desert News and Telegram in Salt Lake City took me to task for my fast driving. Now I’m glad to see you’ve reformed. You can chauffeur me from now on — until you start getting reckless again. Come on, Della.”

They left Mason’s office, went to the parking lot, and Drake drove them to a so-called apartment building, a combination of studios and living quarters. The building had evidently been used at one time as a warehouse. The elevator was a huge, slow-moving affair which inched its way upward carrying Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake to the third floor.

Drake located the apartment of Goring Gilbert and knocked on the door. When there was no answer he pounded with full knuckles, then turned to Mason, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Nobody home.”

“Is the door locked?” Della Street asked.

Drake hesitated, said in a low voice, “I have an operative around here somewhere, Perry. He’ll know where the guy is. All we need to do is to—”

A door across the corridor opened. A woman somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, heavily fleshed, wearing nothing except a light robe stood in the doorway, a cigarette dangling pendulously from a flabby lower lip.

“Something?” she asked, her eyes impudently curious as she surveyed the group.

“Goring Gilbert.”

“Try thirty-four,” the woman said. “There’s a party down there.”

“Which direction?” Mason asked.

The woman jerked with her thumb.

As the trio moved off down the corridor, the woman stood in the doorway watching.

Hi-fi music seeped its way through the door of Studio 34.

Drake’s knuckles gave a loud knock.

The door was opened by a slender, trim-figured young woman in a bikini bathing suit, who said, “Well, come on—”

She stopped mid-sentence as she surveyed the group, then said over her shoulder, “Okay, Goring, I guess it’s for you. Outsiders.”

A man attired in a sport shirt which was unbuttoned, a pair of slacks and apparently nothing else, came in barefooted silence to the door, surveyed the party.

“Goring Gilbert?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“We’d like to talk with you.”

“What about?”

“A matter of business.”

“What kind of business?”

“A painting.”

“A duplicate painting,” Drake said.

Gilbert called over his shoulder, “See you later, folks.”

A man’s voice said, “Play it cool, man.”

Gilbert stepped out into the hall. “My pad’s down the hall,” he said.

“I know,” Mason told him.

Gilbert surveyed him. “That’s right, you would. Okay, let’s go.”

He led the way down the corridor, walking with long, easy strides. His uninhibited hip motion indicated that walking barefoot was no novelty to him.

He took a key from his pocket, fitted it to the lock, twisted the knob, said, “Come on in.”

The place was a litter of canvases, brushes, two or three easels, and smelled of paint.

“This is a workingman’s shop,” Gilbert said.

“I see,” Mason said.

“All right, what’s worrying you cats?”

“You know Collin Durant?” Drake asked.

“Did know him,” Gilbert said. “The guy’s dead and I hope you’re not trying some of this crude stuff of trying to say ‘How did you know he was dead unless you killed him?’ — I didn’t kill him, I heard it on the radio; that is, I didn’t hear it but my chick did, and made me wise. Now what do you want?”

“You did work for Durant,” Drake said.

“What if I did?”

“Some of those paintings were forgeries that he palmed off as originals.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Gilbert said. “What do you mean forgeries? I don’t give a damn what a guy does with a painting after I sell it to him, but that guy never palmed off anything of mine that way. He always told the customer, ‘I have a painting which almost any expert will pronounce a genuine so-and-so. I don’t think it is, but it’s a swell conversation piece and I can get it for you for peanuts.’

“Now, what’s wrong with that?

“Soon as I heard of the murder I figured guys like you would be down here prying. Now I’ve told you what I know, and that’s all I know.”

Mason, who had been carefully watching Gilbert, said, “You did a certain painting that we’re interested in. It was a copy job. I’m not saying it was a forgery. I simply say that it was a clever copy.”

“That’s better,” Gilbert said.

“The copy,” Mason said, “was of a Phellipe Feteet. It was a copy of a picture of women under a tree with a strongly lighted background—”

“Sure,” Gilbert said. “All Feteet’s pictures were like that.”

“Now,” Mason said, “we want to know when you made this copy, what happened to it, and how much you were paid for it.”

Drake’s face showed some surprise as he followed the lawyer’s questioning.

“You got a right to ask?” Gilbert inquired.

“I’ve got a right to ask,” Mason said.

“Credentials?”

Mason said. “Drake’s a private detective, I’m an attorney.”

“A private detective doesn’t rank and I don’t have to talk to an attorney.”

“Yes, you do,” Mason said smiling. “You don’t have to do it now but you would have to do it under oath and on the witness stand.”

“So you want me to talk now?”

“I want you to talk now.”

Gilbert thought for a moment, then padded his way across the floor to a place where several canvases were piled up, selected the bottom canvas, pulled it out.

“This answer your question?” he inquired.

Mason and Della Street stood speechless, impressed by the sheer brilliance and artistry of the canvas; a canvas which seemed an exact duplicate of the one they had seen on Otto Olney’s yacht; a canvas that had power and vivid coloring. The smooth texture of the skin on the women’s necks and shoulders was such that one could see the sheen of light caressing the velvety softness.

“That’s the one,” Mason said. “Where did you copy it?”

“Right here in the studio.”

“You had the original to copy from?”

“My methods are none of your damned business. I did it, that’s all. It’s a hell of a good job and I’m proud of it. It’s got everything that Phellipe Feteet ever had. Those were my instructions, to make a copy so accurate you couldn’t tell it from the original.”

“How in the world did you do it?” Della Street asked.

“That’s my secret,” Gilbert said. He turned back to Mason. “Now, what about it?”

“How long ago did you do it?”

“Couple of weeks ago, and it took me a while — the way I work.”

“Slow?” Mason asked.

“Spasmodic,” Gilbert said.

“How much were you paid for it?”

“I’ll answer that on the witness stand, if I have to.”

“You’re going to have to,” Mason said, “and if you answer it now, it might save a lot of trouble. I’d particularly want to know whether Durant paid you by check.”

“No checks,” Gilbert said. “Durant, you say? That guy! Look, you’ve got all the information now you’re going to get, so I’m going back to my party and you’re going back to yours.”

Della Street said, “Would you answer one question for me, Mr. Gilbert?”

Gilbert turned and surveyed her from head to foot. His face showed approval. “For you, baby, yes, I’d answer one question for you.”

“Were you paid for that picture in hundred-dollar bills?” Della Street asked.

Gilbert hesitated a moment, then said, “I wish you hadn’t asked me that question, but I told you I’d answer your question and I’ll answer it. Yes, I was paid in hundred-dollar bills and since you I like I’ll tell you the rest of it. It was an even two thousand and I had it in twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, and it has nothing to do with what you’re after.”

“Two weeks ago?” Mason asked.

“About that, when I got paid. About ten days.”

“How did you get the painting back?” Mason asked.

“No one ever took it. It was left here.”

“Any marking on that picture so you can identify it in case the question should arise as to whether this is the copy or the original?”

“I can tell,” Gilbert said, “and I’ll bet nobody else can.”

“Are you certain this is the copy?”

“It’s the copy.”

Mason said, “What will you take for it?”

“You mean you want to buy it?”

“I might.”

Gilbert said, “Don’t crowd me. I’ll think it over and let you know.”

“When?”

“When I make up my mind.”

Mason said, “Here’s one of my cards. I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

“Hell, I know,” Gilbert said. “I recognized your face when I saw you standing there. You’ve been photographed too much... Who’s the chick?”

“Della Street, my secretary,” Mason said.

Gilbert’s eyes went over her again. “Crazy,” he said.

“Thanks,” Della Street said.

“What are you doing now?” Gilbert asked. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“When do you get off?”

Della Street surveyed him. “Any time.”

“Want to ditch these squares and come on down to a party — nice people, no hypocrisy, no detours, no yakkity-yak; talk straight from the shoulder?”

“Some other time, maybe,” Della Street said. “Do you have the right to sell this painting?”

“How should I know?” Gilbert asked. “If I sold it to a lawyer, he could worry about the title.”

Mason said, “It may be very important to make certain that nothing happens to that picture. Just how much money would you want for it right now so I could take it out of here with me?”

Gilbert said, “Money, money, money! I get so damned tired of square talk about money, I could scream!

“You know something? That’s my trouble. I’ve got talent that people want to buy for money, and I’m so damned screwy that I take the money. Now, I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Perry Mason. I don’t want money. I’ve got money. I’ve got enough to pay the rent on this pad, I’ve got enough to buy food, I’ve got enough to buy juice. Everything else I get for nothing.

“You know something? I was just on the point of giving that painting to your secretary just so she would have something to remember me by, but now I think I’ll hang onto it for a while.

“I’ll tell you something else. Don’t ever come down here and start offering me money. I’m finished with money. I am getting so I’m becoming a square myself. Money can’t live your life for you. Money can only give you a lot of false objectives. You can’t buy your way to happiness. You can only live your way to happiness.

“I think your chick’s all right, but you two are in a rut. The sad part of it is you have brains enough to break away from the routine if you’d just give yourselves a break, but you don’t have guts enough to do it; you’re all wrapped up in the conventions. To hell with it! I’m going back to my party and people who talk my language. Good night to all of you. Come on, I’m closing up the joint.”

“I want to be sure that nothing happens to that painting,” Mason repeated. “It may be important.”

“Your needle’s stuck,” Gilbert said. “You’ve been all over that before. You’re wearing out the record.”

“I just wanted to be sure I was registering on your wave length,” Mason told him.

“You’re coming in loud and clear. I heard you the first time and the second time. Now, don’t waste any more of my time and don’t offer me money. I’m sick of money.”

He looked Della over again. “Come back anytime, Sugar.” Then to Mason and Paul Drake, “Okay. I’m going back to the party. Come on, you guys are out.”

They walked out into the hall. Gilbert pulled the door shut. The spring lock clicked into place.

“Have fun,” Della Street said.

He turned, looked her over, then said, “We do. You could.”

He stood with them for a half moment at the elevator, then barefooted his way on down the corridor.

“There’s a man who has talent, remarkable talent,” Mason said. Then he turned to Della Street. “How did you know Durant paid for the duplicate painting in hundred-dollar bills?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I just made a shot in the dark.”

“You hit quite a bull’s-eye,” Mason said.

“Do you suppose they arranged things so that duplicate picture was actually hung in the salon in the yacht?” Drake asked.

“No,” Mason said. “They weren’t ready to switch paintings until after Olney had taken the bait. They needled Olney and Rankin, knowing someone would fall for it and walk into the trap. After Olney had filed his suit and had his experts all ready to go on the stand and swear that the picture was genuine, if he could have arranged it, Durant would have had the duplicate substituted, so that it was the duplicate that was brought into court.

“The experts, having seen and appraised the original, would be lulled into a false security, would get up on the stand and swear that this was an original Feteet. Then Durant’s attorney would have asked them to take a closer look and started cross-examining them. Suddenly the experts would have become just a little dubious and started looking for telltale marks of identification and perhaps not find them. They might have either continued to swear that it was an original or they might have backed up on their opinion and become more or less panic-stricken. Durant would have won out in either event.”

“But could he have proven that it was a copy?” Drake asked.

“They’ve got some secret mark on it, something that would have enabled him to prove it was a copy; that is, there’s some way of proving it was painted years after Feteet’s death.”

“Then, if he’d lived, Durant would have been able to have taken Olney for quite a ride.”

“If he’d lived,” Mason said dryly.

“So now?” Drake asked.

“Now,” Mason said, “you’d better keep your men working but go get yourself a night’s sleep, Paul. You look tired.”

“The reason I look tired,” Drake said, “is because I am tired. For your information, I’m going to stumble into a Turkish bath and sweat a lot of fatigue poisons out of me. Then I’m going to hit the hay and it’s going to be someplace where you can’t reach me on a telephone. Tomorrow morning I’ll be back on the job. Tonight I’m bushed, finished, all in, down and out, and I’m not going to get back on the job no matter what happens.”

“Tomorrow,” Mason said, “You’ll be like a new man.”

“Tomorrow is a long way off,” Drake told him.

“And tomorrow you’ll cover the banks?”

“What about the banks?”

“Where,” Mason asked, “does a man get hundred-dollar bills?”

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “I wish I did. I could use some.”

“From banks,” Mason told him. “You don’t go into a store and say, ‘May I cash a check and would you give it to me in hundreds, please?’ You don’t go to a motion picture theater and slide a thousand-dollar bill under the wicket and say, ‘Please give me the change in hundreds.’ ”

Drake blinked thoughtfully.

“Durant,” Mason went on, “had no bank account that meant anything. He couldn’t pay his rent. He was in debt. He bought painters’ supplies and ran behind. Then he paid off with hundred-dollar bills. That was two weeks ago. He had painting supplies sent to a beatnik artist. He paid the artist in hundred-dollar bills. Then he was broke again. Then he wanted Maxine out of town. He didn’t have any money to give her. He went away. He came back. He had hundred-dollar bills.”

“You mean he had another bank account under an assumed name?” Drake asked.

“The banks were closed,” Mason said.

“I’m tired,” Drake told him. “I don’t want to cope with it.”

“Go get a Turkish bath,” Mason told him, “and you can cope tomorrow.”

The lawyer turned to Della Street. “I’m taking you home, Della, and tomorrow at eight-thirty we have a conference in the office.”

“Nine-thirty,” Drake said.

“Eight-thirty,” Mason repeated.

“Nine.”

“Eight-thirty.”

“All right,” Drake said. “Eight-thirty. What’s an hour out of a night’s sleep?”