“Sure,” Gilbert said. “All Feteet’s pictures were like that.”
“Now,” Mason said, “we want to know when you made this copy, what happened to it, and how much you were paid for it.”
Drake’s face showed some surprise as he followed the lawyer’s questioning.
“You got a right to ask?” Gilbert inquired.
“I’ve got a right to ask,” Mason said.
“Credentials?”
Mason said. “Drake’s a private detective, I’m an attorney.”
“A private detective doesn’t rank and I don’t have to talk to an attorney.”
“Yes, you do,” Mason said smiling. “You don’t have to do it now but you would have to do it under oath and on the witness stand.”
“So you want me to talk now?”
“I want you to talk now.”
Gilbert thought for a moment, then padded his way across the floor to a place where several canvases were piled up, selected the bottom canvas, pulled it out.
“This answer your question?” he inquired.
Mason and Della Street stood speechless, impressed by the sheer brilliance and artistry of the canvas; a canvas which seemed an exact duplicate of the one they had seen on Otto Olney’s yacht; a canvas that had power and vivid coloring. The smooth texture of the skin on the women’s necks and shoulders was such that one could see the sheen of light caressing the velvety softness.
“That’s the one,” Mason said. “Where did you copy it?”
“Right here in the studio.”
“You had the original to copy from?”
“My methods are none of your damned business. I did it, that’s all. It’s a hell of a good job and I’m proud of it. It’s got everything that Phellipe Feteet ever had. Those were my instructions, to make a copy so accurate you couldn’t tell it from the original.”
“How in the world did you do it?” Della Street asked.
“That’s my secret,” Gilbert said. He turned back to Mason. “Now, what about it?”
“How long ago did you do it?”
“Couple of weeks ago, and it took me a while — the way I work.”
“Slow?” Mason asked.
“Spasmodic,” Gilbert said.
“How much were you paid for it?”
“I’ll answer that on the witness stand, if I have to.”
“You’re going to have to,” Mason said, “and if you answer it now, it might save a lot of trouble. I’d particularly want to know whether Durant paid you by check.”
“No checks,” Gilbert said. “Durant, you say? That guy! Look, you’ve got all the information now you’re going to get, so I’m going back to my party and you’re going back to yours.”
Della Street said, “Would you answer one question for me, Mr. Gilbert?”
Gilbert turned and surveyed her from head to foot. His face showed approval. “For you, baby, yes, I’d answer one question for you.”
“Were you paid for that picture in hundred-dollar bills?” Della Street asked.
Gilbert hesitated a moment, then said, “I wish you hadn’t asked me that question, but I told you I’d answer your question and I’ll answer it. Yes, I was paid in hundred-dollar bills and since you I like I’ll tell you the rest of it. It was an even two thousand and I had it in twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, and it has nothing to do with what you’re after.”
“Two weeks ago?” Mason asked.
“About that, when I got paid. About ten days.”
“How did you get the painting back?” Mason asked.
“No one ever took it. It was left here.”
“Any marking on that picture so you can identify it in case the question should arise as to whether this is the copy or the original?”
“I can tell,” Gilbert said, “and I’ll bet nobody else can.”
“Are you certain this is the copy?”
“It’s the copy.”
Mason said, “What will you take for it?”
“You mean you want to buy it?”
“I might.”
Gilbert said, “Don’t crowd me. I’ll think it over and let you know.”
“When?”
“When I make up my mind.”
Mason said, “Here’s one of my cards. I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer.”
“Hell, I know,” Gilbert said. “I recognized your face when I saw you standing there. You’ve been photographed too much... Who’s the chick?”
“Della Street, my secretary,” Mason said.
Gilbert’s eyes went over her again. “Crazy,” he said.
“Thanks,” Della Street said.
“What are you doing now?” Gilbert asked. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“When do you get off?”
Della Street surveyed him. “Any time.”
“Want to ditch these squares and come on down to a party — nice people, no hypocrisy, no detours, no yakkity-yak; talk straight from the shoulder?”
“Some other time, maybe,” Della Street said. “Do you have the right to sell this painting?”
“How should I know?” Gilbert asked. “If I sold it to a lawyer, he could worry about the title.”
Mason said, “It may be very important to make certain that nothing happens to that picture. Just how much money would you want for it right now so I could take it out of here with me?”
Gilbert said, “Money, money, money! I get so damned tired of square talk about money, I could scream!
“You know something? That’s my trouble. I’ve got talent that people want to buy for money, and I’m so damned screwy that I take the money. Now, I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Perry Mason. I don’t want money. I’ve got money. I’ve got enough to pay the rent on this pad, I’ve got enough to buy food, I’ve got enough to buy juice. Everything else I get for nothing.
“You know something? I was just on the point of giving that painting to your secretary just so she would have something to remember me by, but now I think I’ll hang onto it for a while.
“I’ll tell you something else. Don’t ever come down here and start offering me money. I’m finished with money. I am getting so I’m becoming a square myself. Money can’t live your life for you. Money can only give you a lot of false objectives. You can’t buy your way to happiness. You can only live your way to happiness.
“I think your chick’s all right, but you two are in a rut. The sad part of it is you have brains enough to break away from the routine if you’d just give yourselves a break, but you don’t have guts enough to do it; you’re all wrapped up in the conventions. To hell with it! I’m going back to my party and people who talk my language. Good night to all of you. Come on, I’m closing up the joint.”
“I want to be sure that nothing happens to that painting,” Mason repeated. “It may be important.”
“Your needle’s stuck,” Gilbert said. “You’ve been all over that before. You’re wearing out the record.”
“I just wanted to be sure I was registering on your wave length,” Mason told him.
“You’re coming in loud and clear. I heard you the first time and the second time. Now, don’t waste any more of my time and don’t offer me money. I’m sick of money.”
He looked Della over again. “Come back anytime, Sugar.” Then to Mason and Paul Drake, “Okay. I’m going back to the party. Come on, you guys are out.”
They walked out into the hall. Gilbert pulled the door shut. The spring lock clicked into place.
“Have fun,” Della Street said.
He turned, looked her over, then said, “We do. You could.”
He stood with them for a half moment at the elevator, then barefooted his way on down the corridor.
“There’s a man who has talent, remarkable talent,” Mason said. Then he turned to Della Street. “How did you know Durant paid for the duplicate painting in hundred-dollar bills?”