Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Reluctant Model

“Do you know how much he had on him at the time of his death?”

“I understood he had an even ten thousand dollars, all in hundred-dollar bills.”

“Yet a few hours earlier he had been trying to raise a thousand from this friend of yours?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“About five o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Then, at sometime around eight o’clock he had ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.”

“That’s right. At least, that’s what I understand the police found on the body, and they fix the time of his death at around eight o’clock.”

“In that event,” Mason said, “Durant had made a raise somewhere. Someone had financed him, and he’d increased his sights so that instead of asking one thousand he was asking ten thousand.”

Rankin nodded.

“No idea where that money came from?”

Rankin shook his head.

“Let’s make mighty certain of one thing, Rankin,” Mason said, “that there’s nothing about this case that you know and are concealing.”

There was a long period of rather uncomfortable silence, then again Rankin slowly shook his head. “Nothing,” he said.

“All right, Rankin,” Mason said. “Now tell me the name of your friend, the one Durant tried to put the bite on.”

“I prefer not to mention her name.”

“It’s important.”

“To whom?”

“To Maxine Lindsay — and to you.”

“Why to me?”

“I want to know how you’re mixed up in it.”

“I’m not mixed up in it.”

“You will be if you don’t tell me the name of this person.”

Rankin thought things over for a while, then said, “I never thought he’d call her on a thing like that. It was Corliss Kenner. He told her he was coming to see her and that he needed a thousand dollars. She called me and told me.”

“What did she tell him?”

“You want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Told him to go to hell.”

Mason frowned, abruptly arose from his chair.

“I’m just running down all the angles,” he said, “and I wanted to be sure that there was no misunderstanding between us.”

“There isn’t,” Rankin told him. “I understand your position and respect it. No matter what happens, don’t pull any punches — don’t pull any punches.”

“I won’t,” Mason assured him. “I’m not much of a punch-puller.”

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.”