And so I sallied forth to dance a pas de deux with Hector Johnson, papa of the unknowable Madam X.
The first thing I did after exiting was to search our three-car garage, hoping to find Al Rogoff lurking in the shadows. He was not. And during the early moments of my drive I tried to spot Al's parked squad car or pickup. No luck. I was on my own.
The Johnsons' condo was brightly lighted and Hector opened the door before I knocked. He was grinning, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside with a great show of boisterous good-fellowship.
"Glad you could make it, Arch!" he shouted. "Sorry about the change of plans, but I figure it's better this way. Am I right?"
"Sure, Heck," I said.
He practically pushed me onto that cretonne couch of recent fond memory.
"Hey," he said, looming over me, "I'm having a Chivas. How about you?"
"No, thanks," I said. "I've been drinking wine and it's instant blotto to mix the grape and the grain. But you go ahead."
"I was just pouring a refill when you pulled up," he said. "Be right back."
He went into the kitchen. I didn't think he was sozzled, but he wasn't stone sober either. I wanted him to keep drinking, figuring it might impair his coordination if things turned nasty. He returned with a full glass and no ice cubes that I could see.
"Your daughter is having dinner with her fiance?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, plopping down in an armchair facing me. "She drove the Lincoln. That guy of hers is a real stiff, isn't he? What Theo sees in him I'll never know."
"Maybe she sees five million dollars," I suggested.
His expression didn't change, but he took a deep gulp of his Scotch. "I'm glad you brought that up, Arch," he said. "Listen, I got bad news. I know I told you I had fifty grand and I did, but now I don't. I was depending on a pal to help me out, but he's in a bind and can't come up with the gelt. Arch, I'm really, truly sorry about this, and you have every right to be pissed. I mean I think you're in the right to ask for a finder's fee and if I had it I'd be happy to hand it over with a smile. But like they say, you can't get blood from a turnip. I only wish there was some other way we could work this out."
The opening I had hoped for…
I was silent a moment, looking at him thoughtfully. "There may be, Heck. And it won't cost you any cash."
He took another swig. "No money?" he said. "Then what do you want?"
"That painting you bought from Marcia Hawkin."
"What painting?" he cried. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Heck," I said, "let's stop playing games. I know Marcia sold you a painting."
"Are you calling me a liar?" he said menacingly.
"Of course not. I just think you're making a very chivalrous attempt to protect the reputation of that poor, unfortunate girl."
He suddenly switched gears. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "That's exactly what I want to do. Louise has enough problems without that. How did you know?"
Then I went into my rehearsed spiel, speaking slowly in a grave voice. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't con a con man. His ego is so bloated that it never occurs to him that anyone would even try to swindle him. Bankers have the same fault.
"Heck, when I spoke to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed she made a confession. I didn't ask questions; she just wanted to talk. You know what a flake she was.
"She told me she arrived home while the housekeeper, Mrs. Folsby, was on the phone reporting to the police she had just discovered the body of Silas Hawkin. Marcia went directly to the studio and saw that her father was dead. Murdered. She said he had been working on a nude portrait of her, acrylic on a wood panel, and she was so proud and happy that he wanted her to pose because it was the first painting he had ever done of her.
"So, she admitted, she stole it. Just wrapped it in a drop cloth, carted it away, and slid it under her bed in the main house before the cops arrived. What she did was unlawful, of course: removing evidence from the scene of a crime.
"But Marcia said she didn't care. She felt the painting belonged to her. Not only had she posed for it but it would be her only remembrance from her father. You can understand how she felt, can't you, Heck?"
"Yeah," he said, finishing his triple Chivas. "Sure I can."
"But then the hostility between Marcia and her stepmother became more venomous. After the death of her father Marcia had no money of her own; her only asset was the last painting by Silas Hawkin. So she decided to sell it. To you. Because she thought you were wealthy and would be willing to help her out. I tried to convince her that what she planned was illegal. She really didn't own the painting; after her father's death it became part of his estate and Louise was his beneficiary. But Marcia insisted on going ahead with it. How much did you pay, Heck?"
The direct question shook him. He gripped his empty glass with both hands and leaned forward tensely. "She told you the painting was a nude of her?"
"That's what she said."
Then he relaxed, sat back, nodded. "I paid her twenty thousand," he said. "A bargain."
"It certainly was," I agreed. "And now I'm going to offer you another bargain. I'll take that painting as a finder's fee instead of the hundred thousand dollars I asked. A nice profit for you, Heck."
He rolled his empty tumbler between his palms while he stared at me closely. "You're so generous," he said, not without irony. "Why?"
"Because I like Silas Hawkin's work. I already own some of his watercolors. And I want to own his last painting, especially since it's on wood, something he hadn't done since he was a student in Paris."
Johnson kept staring and I still wasn't certain he had bought my fairy tale. I added more.
"If you're afraid of getting involved in the police investigation of Marcia's murder, forget it. I figure you paid her and she went out to celebrate with some of those crazy dopers and bikers she knew. They partied, things got rough, and she ended up dead."
"Uh-huh," he said. "That's the way I figure it, too."
"Another consideration is this… What we're talking about is stolen property. Marcia started by stealing the painting from her father's studio. You committed an illegal act by purchasing stolen property. But you get out from under by turning it over to me. Then I have the hot potato. Do you think I'm going to hawk it, lend it to an exhibition, or even show it to anyone else? No way! That nude goes into my private collection and stays private for the rest of my life."
He was silent and I knew it was his moment of decision. Snowing him as I had was the only way to uncover the truth. And if what I suspected was correct, he would be forced to react.
He pondered a long time, not speaking, and I didn't know which way it would go. Finally he said, "Clue me in on this, Arch. What's my downside risk?"
That was Wall Street jargon and I remembered he had been a stockbroker cashiered for securities fraud.
"Your downside risk," I told him bluntly, "is that the cops question me and I repeat what Marcia told me of planning to sell you a painting. The stained drop cloth was found in her Cherokee when they hauled it out of the lake. That implicates you. Also I'd feel it my duty to inform Chauncey's mother that her darling son intends to sign a five-million-dollar prenuptial contract with your daughter, contrary to my advice. There goes Chauncey's inheritance.
"Your upside potential is that the cops never learn from me what Marcia said, and I advise Chauncey to sign the prenup immediately. And everyone lives happily ever after. If I get the painting."
He twisted his features into more grimace than smile. "I don't have much choice, do I?" he said.