the ice cold nude

“You made it?” I gaped at him.

“There are many times when I get bored with the purely commercial aspects,” he said in a tired voice. “I am still a craftsman at heart and like to keep my hand n on occasion.”

His eyes had a bleak and empty look as he stared at ne directly for a moment. “I am all alone, Mr. Boyd, vith no family to worry about or keep me busy. Only vhen I use my hands again am I truly happy.” A sudden varmth replaced the bleakness in his eyes.

“The fine, delicate purity of platinum between my finders,” he said softly. “The dazzling beauty of a flawless tone that demands a perfect setting so its own perfection nay be fully revealed! These are the compensations of a Dnely man, you understand?”

There was no answer to that kind of jazz, so I took a ittle time out and walked across the room to get a closer ook at that nude fantasy which sprawled all over one /all. This was a different kind of perfection and it stim-ilated my critical faculties like crazy. None of that ab-tract or surrealistic jazz—no dipping grapefruits into . can of paint and throwing them at a canvas. This /as a luscious, flamboyant painting of a luscious, flam-►oyant nude blonde. The kind of art that guys called ^rt—or Danny Boyd—really dig, like from deep down ►asic appreciation. In the bottom right-hand corner was a ignature, all curlicues, which read Willie Byers.

“I see you have a hobby, Willie,” I said appreciatively. And this is the kind of subject matter which appeals to my warm-blooded guy who likes to work with his hands.” “The painting?” He smiled wanly. “As you say—a hob->y—but I’m not a very good artist, I’m afraid.”

“I wouldn’t say that at all,” I told him sincerely.” Maybe in this particular painting the subject did help a lot, but to me its strictly a work of art.”

“You are very kind,” he said tersely.

“There’s something very familiar about that dame,” I went on happily, “and I do mean her face. Somehow she reminds me of a contestant in that Poolside Plastics beauty contest. A girl called Louise Lamont—you know her by any chance?”

“A girl in a beauty contest?” He almost laughed in my face at the very idea. “Me, Mr. Boyd? I only wish I could say I did—it might make for a little excitement in my dull life!”

“It was just a thought,” I said idly. “Anyway, it sure is some painting.”

“Thank you.” He rubbed his forehead sparingly, as if afraid that too much pressure would cause the skin to peel like rusted paint.

“If you don’t have any more questions now, Mr. Boyd, I’d be glad if you would excuse me. I am very tired.”

“I was wondering if you’d have any idea how much that tiara is worth to the thief?” I said.

“You mean how much he could get for it from a—if it’s the right word—fence?”

“Sure. Who the hell else would buy it?” I grunted. “The retail value was around one hundred thousand,” he said slowly, thinking out loud. “Wholesale around seventy. I wouldn’t imagine he’d get anything more than fifteen, most. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“I just remembered the point you made about the paste imitation would need a craftsman to fashion it,” he said, his voice dragging heavily. “So if the same craftsman got hold of the real tiara, he could break up the setting, recut and—or—reshape the stones, then sell them one at a time to legitimate buyers. That way, he’d make considerably more than fifteen thousand.”

I nodded. “Thanks. That’s all the questions right now, Willie—I can see you’re real tired.”

I headed toward the door, and he made no effort to get out of his chair and accompany me. When I reached the door, I stopped and turned my head to look at him for a moment.

“You know something, Willie? That girl, Louise La-mont, the one you never heard of before?”

“Yes?”

“She’s got a sister Patty you never heard of, either. But Patty’s heard of you, okay. She’s even seen you in Louise’s apartment. She figures you for a bad influence on her kid sister—too old for her and all that jazz.”

“She’s mistaken,” he said tautly.

“I’ll find out,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I figure that painting of yours is too like Louise for it to be coincidental—and I figure you’re the craftsman who made a paste imitation around the same time you made the original tiara. Then you had Louise make the switch when she got the chance to handle it, when she wore it posing for the publicity pictures. How about that?” “It’s nonsense, of course,” he snapped. “You have a mind given to the most absurd fantasies, Mr. Boyd!” “Maybe,” I granted. “But right now I’m on my way to check with the real life version of your own fantasy on that wall!”

During the drive across town, heading back toward Louise Lamont’s jumping apartment, I had plenty of time to think over the theory. It sounded fine, real fine, and that was the only thing about it that had me real worried. It was too damned neat, and too damned easy. Real life—as the guy said when his girl won the Miss Universe contest, then offered him a hundred grand to marry her—is just not like this.

Around thirty minutes after I’d left Willie Byers, I was standing outside Louise Lamont’s apartment, my thumb practically cemented to the buzzer. Either she was out or she just didn’t want company, and I was about to relinquish the whole project and go buy myself a drink, when I suddenly noticed the door wasn’t shut tight by maybe a quarter-inch. I pressed the flat of my hand against it, exerted a little pressure, and the door swung open easily.

The living room was empty—so Pete must have finally recovered anyway—but I had the uneasy feeling that someone was around, and awful close to me at that. I called out “Louise?” a couple of times and got no answer. There was still no answer when I knocked on the bedroom door, so I went into the room and found that was empty, too.

Filmy nylon underwear and stockings were carefully placed on the bed, ready for wear. A wild profusion of cosmetics littered her dressing table and they also looked as if they were ready for use. From the bathroom came the monotonous sound of a running shower, so everything was explained. For around five seconds I figured the percentage in waiting silently until she walked out of the shower to greet the unexpected guest, covered only with naked confusion, then reluctantly realized I couldn’t bet on her reaction. If she screamed loud enough she could have me tossed out of the building before I’d even mentioned Willie Byers’ name.

So I tapped politely on the bathroom door and waited. Nothing happened. I knocked again, louder this time— then I thumped—I yelled real loud and still nothing happened. My thinking aligned itself with Patty Lamont’s— the sound of the steadily running shower began to assume sinister aspects. Louise had to be deaf not to hear all the noise I made, and I knew she wasn’t. So, either she’d gone out and absent-mindedly left the shower running, or she was in there and for some good reason couldn’t answer me at all. I tried the door knob and found it wasn’t locked.

Five seconds later I found Louise Lamont. She was in the shower okay—sitting splay-legged with her back propped against the tiled wall, while the pleasantly warm water cascaded all around her. Her saturated long blonde hair was plastered tightly against her scalp, giving her a peculiarly childish look of innocence. Her mouth was parted in a small O of surprise and blood still flowed in a sluggish stream from the ugly, blackened hole in her forehead.

Perched firmly on top of her head was a glittering diamond tiara which was somehow obscene in its crystalline beauty, making a dreadful contrast with the warm flesh tints of her ripe-rounded body. Nude, she was Willie Byers’ flamboyant painting come to life, except for that bullet hole in her forehead. Now she was an ice-cold Go-diva—or would be as soon as the water was turned off— and the glittering tiara seemed to wink at me lewdly to emphasize the fact.