Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Reluctant Model

“Just as there are art dealers and art dealers,” Mason said, laughing.

“Exactly,” Howell said. “I didn’t know anything about this until Corliss called me. I don’t know how in the world any art dealer could have doubted the authenticity of this canvas... Tell you what, Mason, this is going to be a great thing for the Phellipe Feteets that are in existence. There are only about two dozen of them. Personally, I’d add three to five thousand dollars to the price of each one just on the strength of this publicity, and that’s a conservative estimate.

“If you ever get a chance to pick up a Feteet at anything under fifteen thousand dollars, grab it as an investment.”

“Think they’re going up?” Mason asked.

“I know they’re going up,” Howell said. “How did all this start, anyway?”

“As I understand it,” Mason said, “although I am not an attorney of record, at a gathering here a dealer by the name of Durant—”

“I know him,” Howell interposed, “sort of an unscrupulous publicity hound. Go on.”

“Expressed an opinion in a conversation that the picture was spurious.”

“Tell Olney that?” Howell asked.

“No,” Mason said, “a young artist named Maxine Lindsay was the one to whom the statement was made.”

Howell’s face froze into immobility. “I see,” he said.

“And,” Mason went on, “I believe she repeated what had been said to Mr. Rankin, the dealer who sold Olney the picture. Rankin communicated with Olney and quite naturally Olney was furious. He feels that Durant’s opinion, if permitted to stand unchallenged, will affect the value of the painting.”

“Well, there’s one thing certain,” Howell said, “nobody in his right mind is going to challenge the authenticity of that painting.”

Mason turned back to Della Street, touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Here’s looking at you,” he said.

“Right back at you,” she told him. “How long do we stay? There’s always the chance this might become a brawl.”

“We stay just long enough to size up the situation,” Mason said.

A flash bulb flared. A photographer said, “Hope you don’t have any objections, Mr. Mason, but you and your secretary, standing shoulder to shoulder looking in each other’s eyes, makes a better story for my paper than this story about the painting that all the other fellows are going to have. What’s your interest in this?”

“Just curiosity,” Mason said. “I was invited and thought I’d look in to see how the other half lives.”

“I get you,” the reporter said, laughing. “Slumming, eh?”

Mason turned to Della Street with a smile.

“Let’s go shake hands with our host and be on our way.”

“Back to the office?” Della Street asked with a smile.

“Don’t be silly!” Mason said. “We can find a lot better things to do than that. Let’s go down to Marineland — you can telephone Gertie that we won’t be back. Tell her to get in touch with Paul Drake at the Drake Detective Agency in case anything breaks that needs us. You can tell her I’ll give Paul a ring before we finish up for the evening... and we can have dinner and a few dances at the Robbers’ Roost.”

Della Street extended her arm. “Twist,” she said.

Mason and Della Street were finishing their after-dinner coffee when the waiter placed a newspaper clipping in front of the attorney.

“I suppose you’ve seen it, Mr. Mason,” he said. “ We’re very proud of it.”

Mason looked at the clipping, one of the syndicated gossip columns of goings-on about town.

“No, I hadn’t seen it,” he said.

Della Street leaned forward, and Mason held the clipping so they could both read.

Dining and dancing at the Robbers’ Roost is quite frequently on the agenda these nights for Perry Mason, famous criminal lawyer whose trials are usually filled with legal fireworks. The night spot is doing brisk business thanks to the people who want to take a look at the well-known attorney and his deep-dish secretary — who is said to shadow him at work and at play, by the way.

Mason handed the clipping back to the waiter with a smile. “I hadn’t seen it,” he said.

“Well,” Della Street said, as the waiter vanished, “I suppose that means the end of another good eating place.”

“For dinner dancing,” Mason said, “you can’t beat it. But once the word gets around that I can be found here, heaven knows how many pests will cut in on us.”

“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” Della Street said, “and as a good secretary I seldom make a mistake in such matters, one of these pests is bearing down upon us right now. He is approaching the table with a singleness of purpose indicating a desire either to secure legal advice without being billed for it, or to be able to mention casually, ‘As I was having a drink with Perry Mason last night in the Robbers’ Roost, he said to me...’ ”

She broke off as the man in question came within earshot, a small-boned, wiry individual in his late thirties; nervous, intense, quick-moving.

“Mr. Mason?” he said.

Mason regarded the man coldly. “Yes?”

“You don’t know me and I’m sorry I have to approach you in this manner but it’s a matter of great urgency.”

“To you or to me?” Mason asked.

The man ignored the remark. “I’m Collin Durant,” he said. “I’m an art dealer and critic. The newspapers have been pestering me over some smear that Otto Olney dished out this afternoon. I understand you’re in on it.”

“Your understanding is incorrect,” Mason said. “I am not ‘in’ on any ‘smear’ being ‘dished out’ by Otto Olney.”

“I understand he’s suing me, claiming that I’ve cheapened his paintings, questioned his judgment and branded one of his paintings as spurious.”

“As to that,” Mason said, “you’ll have to talk with Mr. Olney. I’m not an attorney of record in any such case and have no intention of becoming one.”

“But you were there this afternoon. The newspaper photographs show you and your secretary — I take it this is Miss Street who is with you tonight?”

Mason said, “I attended a press conference given by Otto Olney on his yacht this afternoon. I gave no interview to the press and I don’t care to be interviewed now.”

Durant reached over to an adjoining table, whipped a vacant chair around, seated himself, said, “All right, now I want you to hear my side of it.”

Mason said, “I have no desire whatever to hear your side of it. I am not in a position to treat anything you may say as confidential, nor do I have any business which I care to discuss with you.”

“This is something I’m going to discuss with you ,” Durant said.

“In the first place, I don’t know what Olney is talking about. I was never called on by him to express any opinion in regard to any of his paintings. I was a guest on his yacht about a week ago.

“Naturally, being a dealer, I looked over his collection of paintings with an appraising eye but I didn’t make any careful inspection because there was no reason for me to do so.

“The man did have a Phellipe Feteet, or what passed for one. I didn’t examine it. I only glanced at it casually. I understand he paid some thirty-five hundred dollars for it. It is a painting of which he is very proud. I never said it was a forgery. I would have to examine it with great care to make certain. I will say, however, there were some things about the painting that I would want to study carefully if I were to be called upon to express an opinion.”

Mason said, “I’m not asking you to make any statement. I’m not interested in your version of the case and I didn’t ask you to sit down.”