anguished palm. And a moment later cried out in alarm: “Do you know what arrangements have been made for her other things? Whether there’s to be a sale?”
“This bid came through a private channel. Someone who had seen the portrait in her apartment, no doubt, made inquiries of several dealers. He hadn’t known that we were Jacoby’s agents . . .”
“His taste makes it clear that he knows very little about painting.”
Corey made a purse of his lips. “Everyone is not as prejudiced as you are, Waldo. I prophesy the day when Jacoby will be worth real money.”
“Comfort yourself, my sweet buzzard. Both you and I shall be dead by that time. But tell me,” I continued mockingly, “is your prospective sucker some connoisseur who saw the picture in the Sunday tabloids and wants to own the portrait of a murder victim?”
“I do not believe that it would be strictly ethical to give my customer’s name.”
“Your pardon, Corey. My question must have shocked your delicate sensibilities of a business man. Unfortunately I shall have to write the story without using names.”
Lancaster Corey responded like a hunting dog to the smell of rabbit. “What story?”
“You have just given me material for a magnificent piece!” I cried, simulating creative excitement. “An ironic small story about the struggling young painter whose genius goes unrecognized until one of his sitters is violently murdered. And suddenly he, because he had done her portrait, becomes the painter of the year. His name is not only on the lips of collectors, but the public, the public, Corey, know him as they know Mickey Rooney. His prices skyrocket, fashionable women beg to sit for him, he is reproduced in Life , Vogue , Town and Country . . .”
My fantasy so titivated his greed that he could no longer show pride. “You’ve got to mention Jacoby’s name. The story would be meaningless without it.”
“And a footnote, no doubt, explaining that his works are on view in the galleries of Lancaster Corey.”
“That wouldn’t hurt.”
I spoke bitterly. “Your point of view is painfully commercial. Such considerations never enter my mind. Art, Corey, endures. All else passes. My piece would be as vivid and original as a Jacoby portrait.”
“Just include his name. One mention of it,” Corey pleaded.
“That inclusion would remove my story from the realms of literature and place it in the category of journalism. In that case, I’d have to know the facts, even if I did not include all of them. To protect my reputation for veracity, you understand.”
“You’ve won,” Corey admitted and whispered the art-lover’s name.
I sank upon the Biedermeier, laughing as I had not laughed since Laura had been here to share such merry secrets of human frailty.
Along with this genial and amusing tidbit, Corey had, however, brought some distressing information. As soon as I had got rid of him, I changed my clothes, seized hat and stick, and bade Roberto summon a taxi.
Hence to Laura’s apartment, where I found not only Mrs. Treadwell, whom I had expected to find there, but Shelby and the Pomeranian. Laura’s aunt was musing on the value of the few genuinely antique pieces, Shelby taking inventory, and the dog sniffing chair legs.
“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” cried Mrs. Treadwell, who, in spite of expressing open disapproval of my friendship with her niece, had always fluttered before my fame.
“To cupidity, dear lady. I have come to share the booty.”
“This is a painful task.” She sank back into an upholstered chair watching, through heavily blackened lashes, my every movement and glance. “But my lawyer simply insists.”
“How generous of you!” I chattered. “You can spare yourself no pains. In spite of grief and sentiment, you carry on bravely. I dare say you’ll account for every button in poor Laura’s wardrobe.”
A key turned in the lock. We assumed postures of piety as Mark entered.
“Your
“This bid came through a private channel. Someone who had seen the portrait in her apartment, no doubt, made inquiries of several dealers. He hadn’t known that we were Jacoby’s agents . . .”
“His taste makes it clear that he knows very little about painting.”
Corey made a purse of his lips. “Everyone is not as prejudiced as you are, Waldo. I prophesy the day when Jacoby will be worth real money.”
“Comfort yourself, my sweet buzzard. Both you and I shall be dead by that time. But tell me,” I continued mockingly, “is your prospective sucker some connoisseur who saw the picture in the Sunday tabloids and wants to own the portrait of a murder victim?”
“I do not believe that it would be strictly ethical to give my customer’s name.”
“Your pardon, Corey. My question must have shocked your delicate sensibilities of a business man. Unfortunately I shall have to write the story without using names.”
Lancaster Corey responded like a hunting dog to the smell of rabbit. “What story?”
“You have just given me material for a magnificent piece!” I cried, simulating creative excitement. “An ironic small story about the struggling young painter whose genius goes unrecognized until one of his sitters is violently murdered. And suddenly he, because he had done her portrait, becomes the painter of the year. His name is not only on the lips of collectors, but the public, the public, Corey, know him as they know Mickey Rooney. His prices skyrocket, fashionable women beg to sit for him, he is reproduced in Life , Vogue , Town and Country . . .”
My fantasy so titivated his greed that he could no longer show pride. “You’ve got to mention Jacoby’s name. The story would be meaningless without it.”
“And a footnote, no doubt, explaining that his works are on view in the galleries of Lancaster Corey.”
“That wouldn’t hurt.”
I spoke bitterly. “Your point of view is painfully commercial. Such considerations never enter my mind. Art, Corey, endures. All else passes. My piece would be as vivid and original as a Jacoby portrait.”
“Just include his name. One mention of it,” Corey pleaded.
“That inclusion would remove my story from the realms of literature and place it in the category of journalism. In that case, I’d have to know the facts, even if I did not include all of them. To protect my reputation for veracity, you understand.”
“You’ve won,” Corey admitted and whispered the art-lover’s name.
I sank upon the Biedermeier, laughing as I had not laughed since Laura had been here to share such merry secrets of human frailty.
Along with this genial and amusing tidbit, Corey had, however, brought some distressing information. As soon as I had got rid of him, I changed my clothes, seized hat and stick, and bade Roberto summon a taxi.
Hence to Laura’s apartment, where I found not only Mrs. Treadwell, whom I had expected to find there, but Shelby and the Pomeranian. Laura’s aunt was musing on the value of the few genuinely antique pieces, Shelby taking inventory, and the dog sniffing chair legs.
“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” cried Mrs. Treadwell, who, in spite of expressing open disapproval of my friendship with her niece, had always fluttered before my fame.
“To cupidity, dear lady. I have come to share the booty.”
“This is a painful task.” She sank back into an upholstered chair watching, through heavily blackened lashes, my every movement and glance. “But my lawyer simply insists.”
“How generous of you!” I chattered. “You can spare yourself no pains. In spite of grief and sentiment, you carry on bravely. I dare say you’ll account for every button in poor Laura’s wardrobe.”
A key turned in the lock. We assumed postures of piety as Mark entered.
“Your
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