Neil Olson - The Black Painting

“I’ve been at my father’s,” the attorney said, lighting the gas jet under the steel kettle. He knew how to do that much. “I need to get back as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” Dave replied. “I liked him.”

“You were among the few,” Morse said sourly.

“I would have been happy to go to his house, under the circumstances.”

“I wanted this to be private. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

Dave declined, and Morse turned off the kettle, making nothing for himself. They sat at the kitchen table, and the attorney played with his glasses before speaking.

“My wife is in Paris,” he said pointlessly. Maybe to explain the empty house. “With friends. She’ll be back for the funeral, of course.”

“Of course. Your children are around?”

“My son, Ken. He’s at the house. You know why I asked you here, I suppose?”

The question had an accusatory edge, but Dave was not playing.

“I try not to presume anything. I would guess it’s related to your father’s death, except you called me before he died.”

“I did,” Morse agreed. “You’ll remember I tried to speak to you after your investigation.”

“I remember,” said Dave. “I wasn’t free to talk.”

“You invoked client confidentiality. But your client is now deceased.”

“Well, you would know better than me,” Dave replied carefully, “but I’m pretty sure that confidentiality continues after death.”

“Client-attorney privilege does,” Morse said, “but you’re not a lawyer. And even lawyers are allowed exceptions when settling estates.”

“Are you the executor?”

“I assume,” Morse huffed, tossing his glasses on the table and looking uneasy. “I haven’t seen the will yet. I’m meeting his attorney later, at the house.”

“That case was a long time ago,” Dave noted. “I’m no longer employed by that firm.”

“I am aware of that,” said the lawyer snidely.

“I was required to leave my notes with them.” A half-truth. That he was required to do so did not mean that he did. In fact, Dave had been reviewing them last night. “And my memory isn’t what it used to be. I mean, fifteen years...”

“So you don’t intend to tell me anything.”

“About?”

“About your conclusions. In your report to my father.”

“I see.” Dave leaned back in his chair. It was what he expected, though the timing was odd. Why all these years later, twenty-four hours before the old man’s death? If the attorney knew the death was imminent, then it was estate-related. Money. It was always money. “I’m not sure what I could say that would be useful.”

“Then why are you here, Mr. Webster?”

Yes, why? A rainy afternoon in Madrid. Dim rooms on the second floor of the Prado. Luisa had dragged him in to see something else, but he was taken hostage by those nightmare images by Goya. If they were Goya, no one knew for sure. Maybe his son, or the son painting over the father. Maybe the Devil himself. That was easy to believe when you stood before the works. Fourteen of them. Mad pilgrims with white eyes, screaming a song. Saturn’s dark maw devouring a bloody corpse. Witches floating in the air, the black shadow of the He-Goat before his coven. Fourteen, and one missing. A ghost painting, a rumor. For Dave, an obsession. Three years later Alfred Morse called Luisa’s father, Dave’s boss. There had been a theft. An indescribably precious work. He had no faith in the police. Luisa’s father gave the job to Dave, and his life unraveled. Not at that moment, but inexorably over the months and years that followed. And you ask why I’m here.

“You don’t even know why,” Morse said contemptuously.

“Let’s say out of respect for your father. And your loss.”

“I don’t need your respect,” said the attorney. “I need your assistance. I would not ask if it wasn’t necessary, but it’s you who created this mess.”

“Me?” said Dave, amused. “Do you think I took the painting, Mr. Morse?”

“No, but you apparently thought I did,” the attorney raged, straining forward in his chair. Dave wondered if the man was about to attack him. “You destroyed my father’s trust in me. Ruined our relationship. And now you can sit in my house and smirk at me like that, you pathetic fraud.”

That didn’t take long, thought Dave.

“Even if any of that is true,” he answered, “it’s a couple of days too late to fix it.”

That was cruel, he thought, surprised at himself. Why was he provoking the man? Did he want a fight? Did he want to roll around on the spotless tile floor with the lawyer, trading punches? Dave did not like Philip Morse. Fine. But the man had just lost his father, and there was some truth in his words.

Used to being provoked, or maybe embarrassed by his outburst, the attorney grew calm. He smoothed his hair and put his glasses back on. Like Superman becoming Clark Kent.

“Sadly, that is the case,” he said. “I can’t express my hurt at the idea my father died believing me guilty. Another man might feel shame, but I can see you aren’t such a man.”

“You have it wrong, Philip.”

“Then set me straight,” the attorney insisted. “How does your silence serve anyone?”

How indeed? He should beg the man’s pardon and leave. But he knew that he was not going to do that.

“Why now?” he asked. “Why after all this time did you call me two days ago?”

“Why should I answer that?”

“You don’t have to,” Dave said. The attorney eyed him closely, sensing an unspoken deal. He rose from his chair and went to the sink, gazing out the window there.

“My father had no use for his children,” Morse said. “The feeling was more or less mutual. So his coldness toward me in the last decade didn’t really register. It was only a few days ago that I learned he suspected me of stealing the painting.”

“You had no suspicion before?”

“Why would I?” the attorney demanded, wheeling around on him. “He was upset with all of us when it happened. Like it was some group failure. But I didn’t feel it was directed specifically at me.”

“You think I put that idea in his head.”

“You’re free to deny it.”

And who will you blame, then, Dave wondered.

“How did you hear? Who waited until the last couple of days to tell you?”

“That person only just heard it, as well,” the attorney replied. “I’m not free to say who.”

The man desperately wanted Dave to talk. If he would not reveal his source under that inducement, it was pointless to push.

“I can only speak about the investigation as it related to you,” Dave said. “No one else.”

The attorney moved back to the table and sat.

“Understood.”

His expression was so eager that Dave hesitated. But it was too late to hold back.

“I didn’t come to any conclusions,” he said. “For that matter, I didn’t submit a report. There was nothing on paper, it was all verbal.”

“What, on the telephone?”

“Never,” Dave replied. “In person. In his study. I think we met three times.” The big mahogany desk, the blue eyes even colder than his son’s, a crown of white hair swept back from his forehead. And that empty space above where the demon portrait so recently hung. “That’s how he wanted it done. I reported on my progress and he asked questions.”

“About me,” Morse said.

“All the children,” Dave admitted. “Spouses, the help, the caterers for the wake, dealers and collectors. It was a long list, and I didn’t get through half of them.”

“Why not?”

“I can only conjecture. We didn’t trade theories. Your father kept his own council.”