The Case of the Reluctant Model

Chapter Two

It was one-thirty in the afternoon when Della said, “Your witness is out in the other office, Chief.”

“Witness?” Mason asked.

“The one on the spurious painting.”

“Oh,” Mason said, “the young woman whom Durant was trying to impress by telling her Olney’s painting was a phoney. I want to see if she’ll stand up in court, so let’s have a look at her, Della.”

“I’ve already looked at her.”

“How does she stack up?”

Della’s eyes twinkled. “She stacks.”

“How old?”

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”

“Blonde, brunette, redhead?”

“Blonde.”

“Let’s have a look,” Mason said.

“Coming right up,” Della Street told him, and left for the outer office to return in a moment with a very blue-eyed blonde who smiled somewhat diffidently.

“Maxine Lindsay,” Della Street said, “and this is Mr. Mason, Miss Lindsay.”

“How do you do?” she said, coming forward and giving him her hand with a quick, impulsive gesture. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Mason! When Mr. Rankin told me I was to see you I could hardly believe it.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Mason said. “Now, do you know why you’re here, Miss Lindsay?”

“On account of Mr. Durant?”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “Would you care to tell me about it?”

“You mean about the forged Feteet?”

“Was it forged?”

“Mr. Durant said it was.”

“All right,” Mason said, “would you mind sitting down in that chair, Miss Lindsay, and recounting the conversation?”

She dropped into the chair, smiled at Della Street, smoothed her dress, said, “Where shall I begin?”

“When was it?”

“A week ago.”

“Where?”

“On Mr. Olney’s yacht.”

“You’re a friend of his?”

“In a way.”

“And Durant?”

“He was there.”

“A friend of Olney’s?”

“Well,” she said, “perhaps I’d better explain. It was sort of an artists’ party.”

“Olney is an artist?”

“No, he likes artists. He likes art. He likes to talk art. He likes to discuss pictures.”

“And he buys them?”

“Sometimes.”

“But he doesn’t paint?”

“No, he’d like to but he can’t. He has good ideas but poor talent.”

“And you’re an artist?”

“I’d like to be. I’ve had a little success with some of my pictures.”

“And that’s how you knew Mr. Olney?”

Her eyes met Mason’s frankly. “No,” she said, “I don’t think that’s the reason he invited me.”

“Why did he invite you?” Mason asked. “A personal interest?”

“Not in that way,” she said. “I’ve done some modeling. He met me when I was posing for one of the artists. I did pretty good at modeling until I became a little... well, a little busty. So then I decided I’d go in for art.”

“Does being busty disqualify you as a model?” Mason asked. “In the depths of my ignorance I thought it was the other way around.”

She smiled. “Photographers like big busts; artists, as a rule, like a delicacy of figure. I began to lose out on the high-class artist modeling and I wasn’t going to pose for the cheaper photographic work. The high-class photographer is even more choosy than the artist.”

“So you took up painting?” Mason asked.

“Of a sort, yes.”

“You’re making a living at it?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

“You hadn’t done any painting before?” Mason asked. “Any art school or—?”

“It’s not that kind of painting,” she said. “I do portraits.”

“I thought that took quite a bit of training,” Mason said.

“Not the way I do it. I take a photograph, a low-key photograph, blow it up to twenty-two by twenty-eight, and just barely print it. I have it so the image is only plain enough to serve as a guide. Then I go over this image with transparent paint. Then, with that as a base, I use oils to make a finished portrait. I’ve been rather successful.”

“But Olney was more interested in your—”

She smiled. “I think he was interested in my attitude toward art and... well, toward posing.”

“And what’s the attitude?” Mason asked.

“If you’re going to pose,” she said, “why not be frank about it? I never did have any personal hypocrisy and... well, anyway, one time when I was modeling I got to talking with Mr. Olney about his philosophy of life and my philosophy of life... He’d dropped in to see the artist — and the next thing I knew I was invited to one of his parties.”

“That was when the painting was discussed?”

“Oh, no, that was later, a week ago.”

“All right, now tell us about that party. You were talking with Durant?”

“Yes.”

“He was telling you about Olney’s paintings?”

“Not about Olney’s paintings. He was discussing art dealers.”

“And did he discuss Lattimer Rankin?”

“That was the one he was primarily discussing.”

“Can you tell me how the conversation came about?”

She said, “I think Durant was trying to impress me, but he was... well, we were out on the deck and... he was becoming quite personal... I have been very grateful to Mr. Rankin. I think Durant sensed that and resented it.”

“Go ahead.”

“He discussed Mr. Rankin, made some remark about him that I thought was just a little, well, a little — it would have been what you would call catty if he had been a woman.”

“But he wasn’t a woman,” Mason said.

“Definitely not!” she observed with emphasis.

“I take it his hands were restless?” Mason asked.

“All masculine hands are restless,” she said casually. “His were persistent.”

“And then?”

“I told him that I liked Mr. Rankin, that Rankin had befriended me and I liked him, and he said, ‘All right, like him if you want to as a friend but don’t buy any art from him or you’ll get stuck.’ ”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I asked him what he meant by it.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that Rankin either had lousy judgment or victimized his customers, that one of the paintings on the yacht which had been sold by Rankin to Olney was a fake.”

“You asked him which one?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you?”

“Yes, the Phellipe Feteet that was hanging in the main salon.”

“That’s quite a yacht?” Mason asked.

“It’s quite a yacht,” she said. “It was designed to go anyplace the owner wanted to go, around the world — anywhere.”

“Olney goes around the world?”

“I don’t think so. He does a little cruising once in a while but primarily he uses it for parties where... where he can entertain his artistic friends. He lives on board a great deal of the time.”

“He doesn’t have his artist friends at his home?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think his wife approves.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Definitely not.”

“But you do know Olney?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Mason said. “I have to be crude about this. You’re going to be a witness.”

“I don’t want to be a witness.”

“You just about have to be a witness,” Mason said. “A statement was made to you. You’re going to have to repeat that statement. Now then, what I want to know is whether cross-examination could bring out anything that would be personally embarrassing.”

“That depends on the cross-examination,” she said, again meeting his eyes frankly. “I’m twenty-nine years old. I don’t think any girl twenty-nine years old could be cross-examined without—”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said, “don’t get me wrong. I’ll get right down to specific statements. Is there any romantic attachment between you and Lattimer Rankin?”

Her laugh was spontaneous. “Heavens, no! Lattimer Rankin thinks art, dreams art and eats art. His interest in me is as an artist. He has secured me commissions on a few portraits. He’s a real friend. But the idea of any romance in Lattimer Rankin’s mind— No, Mr. Mason. Definitely no.”

“All right,” Mason said, “there’s one more question. How about Otto Olney?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I can’t be sure about Olney.”

“You know whether you’ve had any romantic interludes with him.”

“There haven’t been any romantic interludes,” she said, “but he notices figures — and I have a figure.”

“Have you ever been out with him alone?”

“No.”

“No romantic discussions?”

“None. Except that... well, if I were out alone with him he’d make passes.”

“How do you know?”

“Just on the basis of experience.”

“But you’ve never been out alone with him?”

“No.”

“And he hasn’t made any passes?”

“No.”

“Now, let’s not misunderstand each other,” Mason said. “That’s one place where you and I can’t possibly afford to have any misunderstanding.

“I don’t know this man, Durant, but if he starts fighting he’ll get detectives. He’ll prowl into your past as well as your present.”

“I take it,” she said, meeting his eyes, “that no matter what he finds out he can’t use any of it unless it pertains to Rankin or Olney.”

“Or to the art expert, George Lathan Howell,” Mason said, consulting his notes.

She said, “Mr. Howell is very, very nice.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s come right down to it. He’s very nice. You know him, he knows you?”

“Yes.”

“Any romance?”

“I could lie,” she said.

“Here, or on the witness stand?”

“Both.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mason said.

She hesitated a moment, then again the blue eyes, frank and steady, met Mason’s.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, romance.”

“All right,” Mason told her. “I’m going to try to protect you as much as possible. I’ve got to put through a phone call right away.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Get Lattimer Rankin on the phone.”

A moment later when Della Street nodded, Mason picked up the telephone on his desk, said, “Mason talking, Rankin. You were speaking about George Lathan Howell as an art expert. I have an idea it might be better to get some other art expert.”

“What’s the matter?” Rankin asked. “Isn’t Howell okay? He’s the best man I know of, and I—”

“It has nothing to do with his professional qualifications,” Mason interrupted, “And I’m not able to give you a reason. I simply have to advise you as your attorney. What other expert do you know who would be a good man?”

“There’s Corliss Kenner,” Rankin said after a moment.

“Who’s he?”

“She. A darned good art expert. A little young, but she certainly knows her onions and I’d take her word on a picture just as readily as I would that of anyone in the business.”

“That’s fine,” Mason told him. “Does she have the hatchet-faced type of competency or—”

“Heavens, no!” Rankin interrupted. “She’s terribly attractive. She’s a smart dresser, well-groomed, swell figure—”

“How old?”

“Lord, I don’t know. In the thirties somewhere.”

“Middle, latter part?”

“No, I’d say about the first part.”

“How about using her?” Mason asked.

“I think that would be fine. Of course, I’ve been thinking, Mason, that would be up to Olney. He’d probably want to call in his own appraiser but — I have an idea he’d rather have her than anyone.”

“All right, that’s fine,” Mason said. “Just a moment.”

Mason held his hand over the phone, looked at Maxine Lindsay with a smile. “I take it,” he said, “there’s no reason why cross-examination in a case where Corliss Kenner was an art expert would prove embarrassing in any way.”

Her eyes were smiling. “There is no reason why it would prove embarrassing in any way,” she said.

“Okay,” Mason said into the telephone, “forget Howell and suggest Corliss Kenner. I’m getting an affidavit from Maxine Lindsay. She isn’t particularly anxious to get mixed into it but she’ll ride along.”

“She’s a good kid,” Rankin said, “and while of course her technique is somewhat mechanical, I’m going to be able to do a lot for her. Tell her I’m getting her another commission for two children.”

“I’ll tell her,” Mason said, and hung up.

“May I ask why the affidavit?” Maxine Lindsay asked.

“The affidavit,” Mason said, looking her straight in the eyes, “is to be sure that you don’t lead us down a garden pathway.

“You tell me certain things. I advise a client on the basis of those things. I have to assume that if and when you get into court and get on the witness stand you will testify to those same things that you have told me. If you don’t, my client would be in serious difficulties.”

She nodded.

“Therefore,” Mason said, “I like to have an affidavit from a person who is going to be a key witness. That affidavit is a statement under oath. If you should subsequently repudiate your story, you would then be guilty of perjury, just the same as if you had sworn falsely on the witness stand.”

Her face showed relief. “Oh,” she said, “if that’s all, I’ll be glad to give you the affidavit.”

Mason nodded to Della Street, said, “Write out the affidavit, Della. Get her to sign it and be sure she raises her right hand and swears.”

Maxine Lindsay said, “I won’t let you down, Mr. Mason, if that’s all that’s worrying you. I don’t like to get mixed into it but if I have to, I have to... I won’t let you down. I’ve never let anyone down. I don’t do things that way.”

“I’m satisfied you don’t,” Mason said, taking the outstretched hand. “Now you go with Miss Street and she’ll get the affidavit and have you sign it.”

She hesitated a moment. “If anything should come up in connection with this, can I reach you on the phone?”

“By calling Miss Street,” Mason said. “Do you anticipate something will come up?”

“It might.”

“Then just call this office and ask for Della Street.”

“And if it should be an emergency, and after office hours or on a weekend?”

Mason regarded her thoughtfully. “You can call the Drake Detective Agency. Their offices are on this floor. They are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They can usually reach me.”

“Thank you,” she said, and turned to Della Street.

Mason watched them as they left the office. His forehead was creased in a frown.

Abruptly he picked up his phone, said to the switchboard operator, “Get me Paul Drake, Gertie, please.”

A moment later when Mason had the private detective on the line he said, “A former artist’s model by the name of Maxine Lindsay, Paul. She’s now doing some portrait work of her own. She became a little too busty for the sort of modeling she likes to do. Lattimer Rankin, the art dealer, has been sponsoring her, but I don’t want him to have any idea an investigation is being made. I want her general background, Paul.”

“How old?” Drake asked.

“Late twenties, blonde, blue-eyed, well built, frank, poised.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Drake promised.

“I was quite certain you would,” Mason said dryly. “If she should try to reach me through you after hours, find out what she wants and if it sounds important relay the information.”

“Okay, will do. That all?”

“That,” Mason said, “is all,” and hung up.