James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

On this bright, sunny morning, Kendriek was gloomily reviewing his half-year’s balance sheet. He was not satisfied. The trouble with his ultra-rich clients was that, from time to time, they died. The new generation seemed impervious to his beautiful paintings and antiques. All they seemed interested in were sexy women, drugs, drink and expensive cars.

He had been looking at his long list of rich art collectors, ticking off those alive and those now dead. He had come upon the name of Cyrus Gregg. Now, there had been an excellent client! Kendriek again sighed. He remembered how he had unloaded a doubtful Picasso, a still more doubtful Chagall and many other costly, apparent treasures on Gregg. Since the good man had died so suddenly, the Gregg account had ceased to exist.

While he was ruminating sadly of life and death, his door opened and Louis de Marney, his head salesman, fluttered in.

Louis was pencil thin and could have been any age from twenty five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable. His lean face, narrow eyes and almost lipless mouth gave him the appearance of a suspicious rat.

‘Darling! Guess who?’ he whispered, fluttering to Kendriek’s desk. ‘Crispin Gregg! He’s buying oil paints! Jo-Jo is taking care of him, but I just knew you would want to know!’

Kendriek heaved himself out of his chair, took off his wig and thrust it at Louis.

‘Comb it!’

‘Of course, pet.’ Louis produced a comb from his pocket, ran its fine teeth through the hair of the wig and handed the wig back to Kendriek with a flourish.

Moving to a Venetian mirror — worth thousands of dollars — Kendriek put on the wig, adjusted it, regarded his enormous bulk, straightened his immaculate cream coloured jacket, then nodded to his reflection.

‘This is destiny,’ he said. ‘At this very moment, I was thinking of his dead father.’

He walked into the vast gallery. In the artists’ material department, he found Jo-Jo, a young blond, laying tubes of oil paints, as if they were jewels, on a pad of black velvet before a tall, thin man whose back was to Kendriek.

Moving like a Spanish galleon in full sail, Kendriek approached.

‘Mr. Gregg!’

The tall, thin man turned.

Kendriek found himself confronted by a man with ash blond hair, cut close. His face was pale: the face of a man who avoided the sun. His features were symmetrical: a long, thin nose, a wide forehead, a full-lipped mouth. All this Kendriek took in at a glance, but the man’s eyes not only held him, but startled him: eyes like cloudy opals and as expressionless.

‘I am Claude Kendriek,’ Kendriek said, his voice as smooth as oil. ‘I had the great pleasure of serving your late lamented father. It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you.’

Crispin Gregg nodded. There was no smile, no offer to shake hands: just cold, bored indifference, but this didn’t dismay Kendriek. He had so often dealt with rich clients who treated him like a lackey, but eventually spent money with him.

‘I was just getting some oil paints,’ Crispin said.

‘I do hope we have everything you need, Mr. Gregg.’

‘Oh yes.’ Crispin turned to Jo-Jo. ‘Wrap them. I’ll take them.’

‘Our pleasure, sir,’ Jo-Jo said, bowing. He picked up the dozen or so tubes of paint and went to the end of the counter to pack them.

‘Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said, oozing charm, ‘I know that you are an artist. May I say that it has grieved me that after being on such excellent terms with your father, you haven’t been here before.’

‘I am not interested in the works of other artists,’ Crispin said curtly. ‘I am only interested in my own work.’

‘Of course... of course,’ Kendriek smiled, now looking like a dolphin expecting a fish. ‘A true artist speaking.’ He paused, then went on. ‘Mr. Gregg, I would love to see some of your work. Quite recently, I was talking to Herman Lowenstein — a great art critic. He confided to me that your mother once consulted him about your work, and he was privileged to see some of it. Mr. Gregg! There are very few art critics who know their jobs. Most of them are fakes, but Lowenstein is a true judge.’ This was a glib lie as Kendriek regarded Lowenstein as the phoniest of all the local art critics. ‘He told me your work is outstanding.’ Again a glib lie as Lowenstein had said Crispin’s work was not only unhealthy, but utterly uncommercial. ‘He said the vigor, the imagination, the flow of creative ideas were quite remarkable! The splendid way you use colour! Your technique! When such a great critic talks like this to me, I long to promote your work Mr. Gregg! I can boast of running the finest art gallery on the coast! May I arrange an exhibition of your art? What a privilege! Please, don’t deny me!’

Well, Kendriek thought, if this doesn’t land this cold fish, nothing else will.

‘My work is special,’ Crispin said, but he felt a tingle of excitement. He knew his mother had shown some of his landscapes to Lowenstein, but this was the first time he had heard his work had made such an impression. He suddenly felt an urge to be recognized as an artist of stature. He had many paintings, apart from his secret horror paintings. Why not? But suppose no one was interested? His work was indeed special.

Seeing him hesitating, Kendriek said, oil dripping from his voice, ‘You are modest, Mr. Gregg. Lowenstein can’t be mistaken. Do, please, let me arrange an exhibition. Just imagine if our great modern artists had been shy. What a loss to the world!’

Still hesitating, Crispin said, ‘I don’t think the world is ready for my work. It is too advanced. Maybe later... I’ll think about it.’

The fish is nearly hooked, Kendriek thought. He switched on his understanding smile as he said, ‘How well do I understand your feelings, Mr. Gregg, but give me the privilege to judge. Let me have just one painting. Let me put it in my window. I promise you I will be utterly sincere. If there is no interest — quite unthinkable! — but if there isn’t I will tell you. Give me this opportunity to promote a new and vigorous artist. Let me have just one painting.’

Crispin moved away while he thought. He knew his work was outstanding, but he couldn’t bear the thought that these rich fools, living in Paradise City, wouldn’t appreciate it, but yet...

He made up his mind.

‘Very well, send someone to my villa and I will give him one of my landscapes. Put it in your window, but it must be understood that the painting will be unsigned. No one is to know that I have painted it. I want the reaction of the art collectors. If they show no interest, then return the painting. If they are interested, then I will let you have more for an exhibition.’

‘Perfect, Mr. Gregg. I can’t tell you how excited I am!’

Crispin stared at Kendriek as he said, ‘No one is to know who has painted this picture. It is to be the work of an unknown artist. Do you understand?’ There was something in the opal coloured eyes that sent a little chill through Kendriek’s fat body.

‘It is utterly understood, Mr. Gregg. You can rely on me. My man will call on you this afternoon if that would be convenient.’

Jo-Jo came forward, and with a flourish, presented Crispin with the box of paints.

‘I’ll have something ready for him,’ Crispin said, taking the box. ‘Bill me.’ Then nodding, he started down the long wide aisle that led to the gallery’s exit. On either side were glass cases, artistically lit, displaying some of Kendriek’s many treasures.

Crispin suddenly paused before a small showcase and looked at an object, lying on white velvet.

Kendriek was on his heels.

‘Ah, Mr. Gregg!’ he exclaimed, his little eyes lighting up. ‘A true artist! This unique ornament makes you pause.’