Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

He went to the manager’s office, explained that his apartment had been burglarized, and asked that a thorough check be made of all employees to learn if any of them had noticed any suspicious persons loitering in the corridors. Then he went out and down to Flagler Street.

Pelham Joyce had a studio on the second floor of one of the many arcades on Flagler. Shayne climbed the dingy stairway and entered a huge room overlooking Flagler. The floor was uncarpeted and dirty, littered with the accumulation of cigarette ashes and butts. There were canvases hung on almost every inch of wall space. An easel stood back from the front windows with a half-finished portrait on it, and there were a few chairs scattered about. Pelham Joyce sat in a rocking chair, his slippered feet resting upon the window sill.

He craned his neck as Shayne entered, nodded, then went on interestedly watching the stream of traffic on the street below. He was a shrunken man with a huge bald head. His face was anemic and thin. He wore stained canvas trousers, a dirty shirt which had once been white, a polka-dotted Windsor tie fastened loosely about his gaunt neck, and a shabby velveteen smoking-jacket. His age was indeterminate, though Shayne had sometimes guessed him to be well past seventy. He had studied at the principal academies of art in Europe and had once achieved a small measure of fame for portrait work. But the boulevards of Paris and the absinthe which could be purchased there had sapped his strength and his skill.

Shayne had known him for years; a bit of flotsam tossed up by Miami’s hurrying tide of humanity, dreaming and idling away the declining years of his life contentedly in the tropical climate which demands so little effort for continued survival.

Shayne drew up a chair which had four whole legs and sat down beside him. Pelham Joyce waved a hand at the spectacle out the window. The hand was so thin it was almost transparent.

“Fools. Going around in their private circles and each believing that today is important.”

Shayne said, “Did you ever hear of D. Q. Henderson?”

“Of course.” Joyce did not look at him. “A self-appointed Art critic who trots around the world pandering to the insatiate desire of pork-packer millionaires to be known as patrons of Art.” Each time Pelham Joyce spoke this last word, he invested it with the dignity of a capital A.

“Men like Brighton?” Shayne spoke casually.

“Exactly.” Joyce’s gaze fluttered, birdlike, over Shayne’s face. “Henderson picked up some good things for Brighton when the fool was building his collection. Brighton made the grand gesture of turning his collection over to the Metropolitan, and then I understand he tried to retract when he found himself without funds. The Metropolitan refused, of course-trust them to hang onto anything they get hold of-so I doubt whether Brighton is so patronizing toward Art any longer.”

Shayne waited patiently until he finished. Then he asked, “Do you know if Henderson is still acting as Brighton’s agent?”

“Don’t suppose Brighton can afford the luxury of an agent any longer.” Pelham Joyce chuckled toothlessly.

“Don’t such agents sometimes trace and pick up for a song some unknown pictures by the old masters which later sell for a fabulous sum?”

“That’s more newspaper talk than anything else,” Joyce mumbled.

“But it does happen?” Shayne persisted.

“Oh, yes. It was Henderson, I believe, who dug up an authentic Rembrandt from some ruins in Italy five years ago. It hangs with the Brighton collection now.”

“How much,” Shayne asked, “is such a picture likely to bring?”

“Whatever some damned fool will pay for it,” Joyce told him sharply. “A hundred thousand-half a million-two million. It’s rarity that counts with the collectors, not Art.”

“They generally smuggle them into this country, don’t they?”

“Of course.” Sharply. “No self respecting collector would think of paying honest duty on a rare painting.”

“How,” Shayne asked patiently, “do they go about it?”

“The simplest method is to paint over the original signature and daub on the initials of a well-known imitator of the master’s work. Then, I believe, they generally make a practice of boldly entering through Mexico to avoid the discerning eye of the New York authorities.”

Shayne thanked him, and they sat together for a time while the old man grumbled about the decline of Art and the accompanying disintegration of all Artistic Integrity. But only for a few minutes. Shayne left the disconsolate old man and went down to the Ask Mr. Foster Travel Bureau. For some time he studied steamship routes from Europe to Mexico, and train and plane routes to the United States, jotting down a great deal of interesting information and firmly refusing the clerk’s pressing offer to arrange the details of a trip to any part of the globe. Then he went back to his hotel.

From his apartment he called long distance and asked for the customs office at Laredo, Texas. When the connection was made, he talked to the man in charge at great length. With two one-thousand-dollar bills in his pocket, he gave no thought to the toll charge momently piling up. He hung up with the customs official’s promise of full-cooperation in the matter of notifying him if and when a Mr. D. Q. Henderson passed through the Port of Entry.

It was three o’clock. Shayne went down to the lobby and learned that the careful questioning of all hotel employees had brought no information to light concerning the burglarizing of his apartment. The manager was despondent and sympathetic, but Shayne assured him it did not matter particularly, since nothing of value had been stolen.

Then he went out, got in his car, and drove across the causeway toward the Brighton estate on Miami Beach.

The Brighton Place looked much the same by day as by night. There was an atmosphere of oppressive gloom about the huge house which Shayne attributed to his knowledge of the unsolved tragedy of the preceding night. In the daylight, he saw that a drive led past the south side of the house to a large concrete garage in the rear. All the garage doors were closed, and it was impossible to tell whether there were any cars behind the doors or not. The upper portion of the garage appeared to be subdivided into living-quarters.

There were no parked cars in the drive nor beneath the porte-cochere. Shayne parked where he had last night, got out, and went up the steps. He pressed the electric button briefly.

The front door was opened after a short wait by the same maid who had admitted him previously. She looked more shrunken, and her eyes were red as if from lack of sleep. She recognized him, but didn’t seem particularly pleased to see him. In a dour tone she asked him what he wanted.

Shayne told her he wished to see Miss Brighton. “Miss Phyllis Brighton,” he amended.

“She’s not here.” The maid tried to close the door, but Shayne’s foot prevented her from doing so.

“When do you expect her back?”

“I don’t know.” The maid sniffed primly, a sniff of self-righteous indignation.

“It’s important,” Shayne told her. “Haven’t you any idea when she’ll be here?”

“No, I haven’t. She’s not been home since-since last night.”

“All right,” Shayne said cheerfully. “I’ll speak to Mr. Brighton.”

“Oh, no, sir.” The maid was aghast. “He’s ill. Very ill. No one is allowed to see him.” She pushed the door against Shayne’s foot.

“Very well,” he said placidly. “I’ll see Doctor Pedique.”

“The doctor is resting, sir. He’s not to be disturbed.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Shayne bellowed. He pushed the maid back and the door open. “I’ll just prowl around and talk to myself.” He stepped past her.