Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Reluctant Model

Olney was busy for a while greeting newspaper reporters. Then, seeing that the gathering was complete, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to have cocktails and then I am going to tell you the reason for this gathering.”

One of the newspaper reporters said, “Look, Olney, we know the reason for the gathering. Your attorney has filed suit about this painting by Feteet. Now, cocktails are all right but we want to get a story to the papers and we might as well get the story before we have the cocktails.”

One of the photographers said, “If you’ll just stand up in front of the painting, Mr. Olney...”

Lattimer Rankin stepped forward. “Now, just a minute,” he said, “I want to have this thing done right I want—”

“Now, wait a minute, who are you?” one of the reporters interrupted.

Another one said, “He’s the guy that sold the picture in the first place.”

“Okay, okay, get up in front of the picture. You can stand with Olney.”

“Now, just a minute,” Corliss Kenner said. “I don’t want to be the only expert interviewed on this matter. I have another expert coming. I don’t know why he wasn’t invited in place of me. He’s the greatest expert on this particular type of art there is in the country. I was surprised to find he hadn’t been invited earlier.”

She turned to look at Olney. “I am referring to George Lathan Howell. I took the liberty of inviting him on my own responsibility, Otto. I hope you don’t mind. There are reasons why I felt it advisable. He should be here any minute.”

Hollister said, “Now, hold on. This is a lawsuit and I want to have something to say about how it’s handled. The witnesses—”

“Hello, everybody,” a voice said. “Looks as though I’m a little late.”

“Here’s Howell now,” Corliss Kenner said, relief in her voice.

Mason regarded the thirty-five-year-old brown-eyed, bronzed individual who entered the salon with a light, springy step and the easy affability of one who is assured of his welcome anywhere.

“ Now we can go ahead,” Corliss said.

Otto Olney said, “As the reporters know, and most of you people are now entitled to know, an accusation has been made that this painting by Phellipe Feteet is a forgery.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Howell exclaimed.

Rankin said, “The authenticity of that painting stands out like a sore thumb. No other painter could get that effective brilliance, that pigmentation, that—”

“Now, hold everything,” Olney said, “I want to serve some cocktails. Let’s get these pictures taken. You boys want photographs and you shall have them. Come on now, we’ll get up in front of the painting. You, Hollister, come up here. Rankin, you should be here and Corliss, we’ll want you. And, of course, Howell.”

“Not I,” said Hollister. “I don’t want to be put in the position of trying a lawsuit in the newspapers. I don’t think I’d better be in that photograph, and as far as Mr. Howell is concerned—”

“Howell is the greatest living expert on this type of art,” Otto Olney said. “I’m glad he’s here.”

One of the reporters said, “All right, get up in front of the painting. Now, don’t look as though you’re having your picture taken. Don’t look at the camera. Be looking at the painting. You’ll have to get in fairly close — we don’t want pictures of the backs of your heads. You can keep your profiles to the camera.”

The photographers quickly arranged the group. Flash bulbs flared, camera backs clicked as the slides on film holders were put in and withdrawn.

“Okay,” one reporter said, “we’ve got the pictures. Now let’s have the rest of the story.”

Olney said, “Collin M. Durant, a self-styled art expert, a man who claims to be a dealer, has seen fit to challenge the authenticity ol this picture. He has stated that it’s not a genuine Feteet.”

“Good Lord,” Corliss Kenner said, “can you imagine anyone who knows anything about art making a statement like that!”

Olney said, “Now, I’d like to have Mr. Howell make a statement—”

Hollister interrupted. “We have these art experts here. Now, if we get them photographed we’re going to have to put them on the witness stand. Otherwise, it will look as if one of our witnesses backed down.”

“Well, nobody’s backing down,” Howell said, laughing. “You don’t need to make a close examination of this canvas to know who did it. I think any reputable art expert in the country could look at that canvas clear across a museum and give the name of the painter and the approximate date of the painting. This was done somewhere between thirty-three and thirty-five in the period of Feteet’s painting when he was beginning to uncover a new technique. If the man had lived he might well have revolutionized contemporary painting.

“The only reason he didn’t establish a school is that nobody else has been able to duplicate his effect.”

“I think it’s something in the pigmentation,” Corliss Kenner said.

Howell nodded. “There’s no question about that. He had some secret of mixing his paints. The results show that. Look at the skin on the shoulders of these women under the tree. The smooth texture, the sheen — someone has claimed that he put a little coconut oil in his paints.”

“Well, that isn’t it,” Corliss Kenner said. “Coconut oil won’t work.”

“You tried it?” Howell asked.

She hesitated, then smiled and said, “I experimented a bit. I’d like to find out just what his secret was. I guess every art expert would.”

Men in white coats entered the salon carrying silver trays on which were glasses, ice and bottles.

Otto Olney said, “We have Scotch and soda. We have bourbon and the conventional mixers. We have Manhattans. We have Old Fashioneds and Martinis already mixed. We’re opening up a bar at the far end and—”

One of the reporters said, “How much did this yacht set you back, Olney?”

“I have more than three hundred thousand in it,” Olney said quietly.

“How do you keep it up? Do you write it off?”

“It is used for entertaining in a business way.”

“Is it true you keep all your paintings here?” the reporter asked.

“I keep many of them, yes,” Olney said.

“Why?”

There was a silence. Then Olney said stiffly, “I find it convenient and I like to have them near me. I spend a good deal of my time on the yacht.”

Hollister said to Mason, “He and his wife don’t have the same tastes. She doesn’t like art and doesn’t like the art crowd. He lives on the yacht a great deal of the time.”

“Divorce?” Mason asked.

“There won’t be any.”

A waiter appeared at Mason’s elbow. “Mr. Olney would like to know your pleasure.”

Mason glanced at Della Street.

“Scotch and soda,” she said.

Mason nodded. “Make it two.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollister said, “It’s hard to keep these things from getting out of hand. I think it’s a good idea to have a story but I don’t want to be accused of using publicity to create a prejudicial atmosphere in a lawsuit. I don’t think that’s ethical.”

“It’s frowned upon,” Mason said dryly.

Howell, moving over to the painting, took a magnifying glass from his pocket, examined the canvas carefully.

Mason, accepting the Scotch and soda from the waiter, moved over to stand by Howell’s side.

“Well?” he asked.

“No doubt of it on earth,” Howell said, “but I’m just making sure so that some smart lawyer can’t cross-examine me and—

“Now, wait a minute,” Howell went on hurriedly, “I didn’t mean that personally, Mr. Mason. You know there are lawyers and lawyers.”